He Runs To The Abbey
by BrokenForYouSpilledForYou
Summary: "Don't!" The word tears out of her throat before she can stop it, ricocheting loudly off the walls of the small room like an explosive. She splays her hands across his chest, trying to ignore the eruption of sparks she feels in her fingertips. Archyfic
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I own nothing pertaining to RocknRolla, except for any characters unrecognized to the movie.**

His eyes are blazing. She knows she should have told him in a more delicate way, but he'd been frantic. He was going crazy, demanding answers. The only option she'd had was to blurt it out. She regrets it, but there simply wasn't another option. He shoves his trademark magnum in the back of his pants as he charges for the door, reaching for his trench coat madly. The only thing she can think to do is throw herself in front of him, keeping him at bay for at least a few moments.

"Don't!" The word tears out of her throat before she can stop it, ricocheting loudly off the walls of the small room like an explosive. She splays her hands across his chest, trying to ignore the eruption of sparks she feels in her fingertips; This is the first time she's had to get physical with him in ages, feel his warmth and the erratic rhythm of his speeding heart. "Don't go!"

His nostrils flair as he lets out an angry sigh, allowing his hot breath to hit her face while he glares down at her. "Why not?"

She swallows...hard. "Because..." _Think._ "Because you need to stay here for Abby! She needs you to be strong for her!" She hopes the mention of Abby will soften him, but it seems to have the opposite affect, as she finds herself having to push harder on his chest.

"I _am_ being strong for her! I'm doing this because _she's_ not strong enough to do it! Too kind! Too ill!"

She shoves with all her might, managing to throw him off balance a few steps. "Archy, don't!"

His eyes pierce her, almost going through her like beams. He swallows, too, straightening his coat while trying to gain control over his unsteady breaths. "Why not? Give me one good reason why I shouldn't go and kill 'im right now."

She stares at him with watery eyes, her bosom heaving while she backs away, spreading herself across the door. "She's afraid of men as it is. How do you think she'll react when she finds out you murdered him?"

"She doesn't have to know."

"She's smart, Archy. She'll put two and two together. And when she does, she'll be terrified of you."

He stands and considers. Lizzie's right. Abby is a smart girl. She'd probe the both of them upon hearing of her attacker's death, and she'd ask just the right questions, too. Little questions, asking for details that appear to be insignificant, that will lead her to the correct conclusion. And that's only one of the many things he loves about her. She's an inquisitive young woman, gaining information through her own hard research, learning for her own benefit...because she has the right. That's also why he has to kill the person that's done this to her...that's made her so weak and afraid, timid, back to the quiet person she had only just started to break free of. "I have to do it."

Lizzie braces herself against the door, ensuring her body is pressed painfully against the doorknob and locks. "This is wrong."

He stops just inches from her face, breathing fire on her smooth skin again. "And what they did to her is _right_?"

"I didn't say that!" She snaps. "I'm saying, you should cool off, and go comfort Abby. Think logically of your next move. That's what you do, isn't it? You think about what you should do next in your line of work, and then you execute. Apply it here. There's someone very weak and hurt in the next room, and she needs your attention now, more than he does." Her voice is softer now, lulling, her lips barely brushing his chin. "Go on, Archy. Contemplate the next move logically. Think of what hurts him the most, and think of how to do it without having a run-in with the police. Please. I don't want her to lose you to prison again."

His breathing is easier now, eyes pregnant with thought, rather than blind rage. He studies her eyes carefully, noticing for the first time how close they are to his. All he can manage is a nod, lumbering off without another word to the bedroom to his left. He doesn't like sobbing women, but seeing as this one shares his own blood, he can't stop himself from easing down on his side, scooping the limp figure against his brawny frame.

_**To be continued...**_


	2. Uncle Archy

**Disclaimer: I do not own RocknRolla, with the exception of characters that are unfamiliar to the film. **

People are like pigeons. They have the potential of being pretty, however they chuck it out the window with their greed. Or, perhaps it's just the barbaric instinct to survive. You do need money, after all, to get the things that are crucial for a healthy, hygienic life. Greed. Survival. The two could be interchanged, depending on the person. They strut around like cretins, looking for attention, asking for a handout. Occasionally, if you're lucky, one of them will take a dump on you.

Archy has seen it many times. Done it himself, too. He notes, sitting on the park bench, the strutting. A few birds do it just close enough to his feet. A few yards away, a few boys do it in front of a small group of chicks out on picnic. He shakes his head, glancing back down at his newspaper. He'd been there a few times. Not that he really had to try all that hard. Fluff a few colorful feathers, strut, charm. Voilà.

His mobile rings.

Irritated, he folds the paper again, scanning the people around him while he answers. He can't believe it. It seems so unreal, yet at the same time, he knows it's possible. He questions, asking if they're certain, making sure he's the man they're looking to speak to. He is. He asks if it's just a sick joke, if his brother is just getting back at him for some bad blood he'd forgotten about. It's not. He nods, though he knows they can't see it, and stands from his perch on the park bench.

* * *

He hates the smell of the morgue. Too bad. It's only his first trip here. It's too "clean", yet disgusting at the same time. Chemicals attack his nostrils, some he can name, some not. Formaldehyde is the overpowering one. He can control himself well enough, though all he wants to do is gag. He pushes the girth of his trench coat to the sides, shoving his hands in his pockets while looking to the fellow on his left. He's a short man, nearly a head shorter than Archy. His white lab coat compliments his hair and skin, making his blue eyes stand shockingly out from his face. It also makes the eyes want to blend him with the wall, making Archy look up along the hallway again.

They turn left into a corridor. A few people pass by them; three women are sobbing their eyes out, one barely even able to walk she's doing it so hard. Archy regards her with creased brows, glancing discreetly at her once she's passed him.

"See it all the time." The mortician says lightly. "I'd say I felt sorry for them, if I weren't used to it by now. Working in this business numbs you, lad."

He quirks a brow, remaining silent. He can't remember the last time someone called him "lad", and as far as being numbed...that happened a long time ago. They finally stop outside of one of the many doors in the corridor, the mortician pausing to knock. Archy takes note of a young woman sitting beside it, in a chair. Her legs are drawn up to her chest, arms resting on the knees, face buried in the crook of one elbow. All he can tell is that her hair is blonde, her skin is pale...and she's crying. He looks up when the door opens, allowing himself to be led into the room.

It's fairly empty, save for a few chairs cast off to the sides. A window rests in the far wall, blinds open and allowing sunlight to drift into this dreary place. His eyes follow the bright, golden rays to a trolley table in the middle of the room, a dull turquoise tarp draped over the top. The shape beneath it helps him to brace himself against what could be an ugly truth. Walking forward, he nods to a second mortician, and the tarp is lifted.

The breath whooshes slowly from his lungs, over his tongue and through his teeth. The man is white as milk, eyes firmly shut. He can see red splotches in the more grayed-out areas of the hair...a small detail the morticians either missed or just couldn't get out. There are also a few splotches in the dark eyebrows, set over what would be intimidating eyes. The nose is strong, but broken, leading down to lips set in a thin line, a rather large nick in the lower lip, towards the center. He follows the neck down to a barreled-chest, dusted lightly with a patch of salt and pepper hair. He can see a tear in the skin, peaking just from underneath the tarp, slightly above the right breast; It's a hole, round, clean. _So that's how..._He's only able to stare for a few moments, unable to think. _What did you get into that merited a death? _He can hear his pulse racing, thick and heavy in his ears. Shades of red pulsate behind his eyelids. He pinches the bridge of his nose. _Why..._

The morticians stare at him, the one holding the tarp opting to speak. "Is this him?"

He swallows, steps back. "Yeah, that's him. That's Richie...my brother."

The second mortician pulls the drape up and over the head again, while the first one turns back toward the door. "We figured that's who it was, but the girl was just acting so oddly."

Archy gives the man his full attention, brows creasing curiously, eyes piercing. "What girl?"

"The girl. Blonde thing sulking outside the door. We called her first, the daughter. But she was in such a panic when she got here, we were afraid that she didn't really get a good look."

_Daughter._ He's been so absorbed in the fact that his baby brother has been murdered...Not that he'd been a saint during his span of life, but he hadn't been bad, messed up...like himself. He swallows a little harder than usual, letting out a steady stream of air through his nose. Putting up with his own grief is going to be a task...but someone else's? The door opens again, allowing just enough space for Archy to walk through, then closes. The kid is still there, curled up in fetal position.

_How does she do that in such a small chair? _Awkwardly, he reaches out a hand, molding it over her right shoulder. "Abby?"

Abby's head snaps up like a mouse trap, red-rimmed, puffy eyes wide and startled. She jumps to her feet, gasping. She's more grown up than Archy remembers. The top of her head almost reaches his chest, when it barely cleared his belt buckle, last he saw her. The features of her face are more pronounced, brows dark, despite her blonde hair. She has her mother's nose, small, petite, set over full lips. It's the eyes, though, that have his attention. Brilliant green, almost like emeralds. Just like Richie's...just like his own. He reaches for her again, pausing when she flinches.

"Abby, it's me. You remember Uncle Archy?" He doesn't expect her to right off, though he silently hopes. She hasn't seen him in five years, four of which he'd been locked up.

She stares at him with slight confusion, wiping madly at the tears streaking down her cheeks. She can barely breathe, barely focus, but she wills her logical side up to the front of the line. This man is extremely tall, very much like her father...was. She can't bare to think of him in the past-tense, doesn't want to. But...she has to. A new wave of pain surges through her chest, taking her breath away. It plummets down the length of her torso, down into her stomach, like a kick in the gut. She hunches over slightly, folding her fingers over her belly. _Strong nose, just like dad..._She only has to glance at his eyes to know he's telling the truth. "Uncle..." It's soft, only just a whisper.

He opens his arms, takes a few steps toward her. "Come on, give us a cuddle."

She can smell his cologne when she presses her face to his chest; Not too strong, but definitely masculine. She clings to him like he's seen her every day without interruption, crying openly into the white fabric of his shirt. Archy holds her just as tightly, unsure really of what else to do. He strokes a small circle with his left thumb on her upper back, caresses her hair with his right hand. He doesn't like sobbing women, but seeing as this one shares his own blood, it would be wrong _not_ to comfort her. He bends his head over hers, thinking, and sighs through his nose.

"We should go." He murmurs.

She untangles herself from him, a silent agreement, unable to look at him or speak.

"You still live at the same address?"

She nods, and they walk in silence to Archy's vehicle.

* * *

The flat is just as he remembers. A tiny living room with a kitchen attached, the carpet turning to tile in that area. The windows are dirty, half hidden by white lace curtains (Abby's touch, Archy guesses). The wallpaper also used to be white, faded yellow with age. He takes a seat on the couch in front of the television, equally tiny to match the size of the room, while Abby collects her things. The move to his place will most likely be permanent. After all, he can't just turn a sixteen year old out into the world. Not without a job, money, a place to stay. This place will be too expensive for her to keep up on her own. He shakes his head. No. He'll support her for as long as necessary...or until she gets tired of him. He looks down at his watch after ten minutes, deciding to see if she's collapsed in a fit of tears in her room. She's not there, however, when he makes his way. He thinks it's her room, anyway. The walls are sky blue with white carpet, a bed with red sheets and pillowcases shoved in the upper left corner. He walks to the bag resting on top of it, noting the several pairs of pants and tops resting on the carpet. Brows furrowed, he turns and walks to the bedroom across the hallway.

"Abby?" He calls.

This is certainly his brother's room. White walls and bed sheets, pillowcases, with a general smell of leather and cologne in the air.

"Abby?"

Her head pokes up from the other side of the bed before she gets to her feet, staring at something in her hands. She turns and points a pistol at him when he approaches, causing him to flinch backwards with his hands raised.

"I...I think you should take this." She whispers. "I don't know how to use it."

_Obviously. _Cautiously, he wraps his fingers around the barrel and takes it from her, making sure to move his body out of the way first. "Don't ever, _ever _point a gun at anyone...unless you intend to shoot them."

She hangs her head quietly, tearing up again. "Sorry."

He sighs. He's not used to dealing with females...Emotional ones, anyway. His left arm drapes around her shoulders while he pockets the pistol, hand squeezing her shoulder. "Let's finish getting you packed, hm? You're tired. The sooner we get to my place, the sooner you can rest."

* * *

She manages to calm herself down by the time they reach Archy's flat. Her breathing is reduced to hiccups, nose heavily congested, but the tears have stopped. She nods her thanks when Archy and the driver allow in the house first, brows raising in awe at the polished wood floors and carved walls. She can't recall the last time she was in such a nice place, doesn't really care; this is her new home, and she'll treat it with as much respect as she does Archy.

He smiles in partial amusement to himself, filing her expression away for another time, and places his hand on the base of her neck while he gives her the grand tour. It's not the greatest flat in London, not the shabbiest, either. He notes that she seems to like windows, for she checks the view of each one, allowing the sunlight to filter across her face. He gives her privacy when they reach the room that is to be hers, choosing to retire for at least a little while in front of the fire place in the study. The housekeeper offers him a glass of brandy, and he allows it to warm his belly as he drifts sadly off in his leather chair.

* * *

Though the shower is refreshing, it's not enough to make Abby feel any better. She's grateful to Archy, truly, his actions aren't going unnoticed. She misses home, though. Home where her red bed sheets are, her vast collection of books...a bedroom across the hallway that smells like her father. She eases herself down on the edge of the tub, resting her chin on her fist. She could preserve the scent somehow, keeping a little piece of her father alive for as long as possible. He was in possession of quite a lot of jewelry, too; no problem carrying a piece of him with her.

She stands. _This is depressing. _She tries to think of other things while she brushes her teeth, like how she'll ever thank Archy for all of this, or how soon she'll be ready to go back to school. _School. There's a good distraction. I could bring my grades up this way. _But the thought of trying forget her father just makes everything hurt worse. She reaches into the medicine cabinet to put her toothbrush away...and that's when she sees it. The toothbrush is forgotten, dropped onto some random shelf, replaced with a razor in her hand. _Dad has one of these. Old-fashioned, straight-razor. Archy must share the same taste with dad in this area. _

She opens it, slowly, looking at the reflection of her eyes in the blade. _So cold, yet inviting. Do I really want to start this up again?_ She pulls the the left sleeve of her robe down, revealing old, raised scars in the flesh of her wrist. It all began when her mother died. Years of therapy to stop. _It hurt dad so much when he found out..._She swallows, looking at the razor again. _I can clean it up. Archy never has to know. _The blade touches her skin, in the center of where two of the fleshy lines meet in an "x". _There's no telling how long it'll take me to stop...once I start. He'll find out at one point. _An image of Richie flashes through her mind. His beautiful smile, probably very similar to her uncle's. The way his eyes lit up just when she walked into the room. Then...then she just sees him in a puddle of his own blood...right there, on the sidewalk. She hadn't witnessed it, the shooting. Yet, she can see it happening all so clearly. Gone. His smile, his sparkling eyes, his encouraging words that always got her through the day, his soothing voice.

The razor presses harder to her skin, then moves slowly to the right. Tears blur her vision as she feels the warmth seeping down her wrist, staining her forearm. She allows the tears to flow freely, before dropping the razor, searching the medicine cabinet for a way to stop the bleeding.

_**To be continued...Feedback would be much appreciated.**_


	3. Bittersweet Rain

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything pertaining to RocknRolla, except characters that aren't original to the movie. **

She's never been happier about rain. If she can be called happy, that is. With the cover of the rain, no one can really tell that she's crying. The only thing she doesn't like about it, is the fact that she can't _feel_ herself crying. She knows she is, but with her entire face drenched, all she can feel are the rain drops, not tears. This way, it only feels like irregular breathing and congestion. She'll be inside the church, soon enough, where she'll dry off, and the fact will be obvious, aside from the tell-tale red eyes and trembling shoulders.

Archy sits solemnly beside her, his face also wet, set in a determined frown. If it were any other occasion, Abby would think he looks smashing, dressed in his black suit and tie. But this isn't any other occasion, and she doesn't want to think of anyone looking particularly smashing while attending a funeral. She glances over at him, watches him stare (somewhat broodingly), out the window at the rain hitting the pavement. She realizes that he's awfully good at keeping his reserve. He looks dejected, yes, but he's not completely losing it...like her.

She decides to look out the window as well, watch Londoners go about their daily business; They don't have a funeral go to. They don't look miserable. She looks down at her lap, at her hands folded neatly on top of her black dress. Apparently, she can't look at anyone without giving them a negative light; Hands will have to do...for now.

The rain is positively pounding by the time they reach their destination. Archy reaches for the umbrella, but Abby climbs out of the vehicle before he or Turbo can assist her. She walks steadily in the rain, allowing it to soak her hair and drench her clothes once more, not stopping until she reaches the church.

_That's the daughter._

_Oh, she's soaking wet!_

_Poor thing. Must be in denial._

_What's she going to do now? _

_I heard her uncle took her in. Poor man. _

She ignores the voices, doesn't acknowledge the expressions of pity or the pats on the shoulders. She goes directly to the front, towards the alter, where the open casket waits for her. _He looks peaceful, _She decides. His hands are folded neatly atop his stomach, much like he used to do when he would nap on the couch. She stares at them, deciding to take one in her hand, resting the other on the edge of his coffin. _So cold..._

_6 Years Prior..._

"_How was your day?"_

_A grumble is her response. _

_Richie peeks at her from over the newspaper, quirking a brow. "It couldn't have been that bad."_

"_I hate school. Everybody picked me to joke about."_

"_They're just jealous. And it couldn't have been everyone." He sets the paper aside, patting the spot next to him on the couch. "Come here, darling." _

_She shrugs her shoulders until the rucksack hits the floor, takes a seat beside him. She accepts her daily hug and kiss on the cheek, then sinks back against the couch. "Everyone but the nerds."_

"_Nerds aren't bad; nerds make good friends." _

"_Not good. You get bullied for being friends with them, too."_

_Richie snorts, opting to lean against the cushions as well. "You can't live your life to please everyone."_

"_You say that all the time."_

"_Then it's about time you apply it, hm?" He presses his lips together, widening his eyes a bit as he leans toward her. "Hmm?"_

_She flicks her gaze to him, realizing he's just a nose-length away from her face. She tries to push him away with a chuckle, unable to dodge his multiple kisses. "Daddy!" _

"_Now, see? See what I did?"_

_She play sighs. "What?"_

"_I made you smile, and you stopped worrying."_

"_So?"_

"_Sooo? What am I always telling you?"_

"Smile when the world is cold," She whispers into the casket, "And it gets a bit brighter."

"_Smile when the world is cold, and it gets a bit brighter."_

"But what if I'm too sad?"

"_But what if I'm too sad?"_

"_Then just try it on. Even for a few seconds. You might be surprised." _

"And if I don't want to?"

"_And if I don't want to?"_

"_It's the world's loss." _

She strokes his knuckles with her thumb, shoulders shaking. "You always did think too highly of me."

A heavy hand squeezes her shoulder. "They're about to start; They've requested that we take our seats." Archy whispers.

She allows herself to be steered away, sliding her hand up his arm and over the edge of the casket, before seating herself. She makes sure to sit particularly close to her uncle, enabling herself to at least be able to feel _his _warmth, feel the fact that at least _he _is still there to catch her, if he's willing to go that far. Archy pretends not to notice, though he does rest his arm over the back of the pew, hand dangling across her shoulder.

The priest takes his place before the coffin, opens his Bible to a marked chapter. "The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away-"

Abby shifts lightly, closes her eyes. _I can do this. Deep breaths. _

"We are not gathered to mourn his death, but to celebrate his life-"

She exhales largely through her nose, keeping her eyes shut. Her face is dry now, making her tears obvious. She tries to focus on her breathing, on keeping calm, rather than the milky corpse before her.

"What is death, but the _beginning_ of life?"

She doesn't see Archy's doleful glance, doesn't feel his hand mold around the ball of her shoulder, thumb rubbing light circles when her entire upper body begins to shake. She can't hear the priest anymore. She can't even think; The moment a word begins to form, a memory replaces it. Just silent pictures, like those old-fashioned movies, except hers are in color. All of a sudden, she doesn't want to proceed with this funeral. She doesn't want to be sitting in this pew, she doesn't want to be conveniently situated next to Archy, she doesn't even want to be anywhere but her new room. It's all too much, too fast.

She's brought back among the living when Archy completely moves away from her. She begins to follow, thinking the ceremony is over, when the priest moves from the podium, and Archy takes his place. He looks out across the small congregation, nodding briefly at some, making eye contact with a few. His elongated fingers grasp the sides of the podium, and he exhales deeply, before leaning toward the microphone. "My name's Archy," He states quietly, "Richie's brother. I'd like to thank you all for coming out, despite the weather; it shows that at some time or another, Richie meant something to you. Some of you I know, some I don't. Richie was good at making friends," _Which makes it all the more difficult to believe someone killed him, _"Making it a bit hard to keep up with them all." He pauses to clear his throat, collect his thoughts while staring at some invisible imperfection in the woodwork of the podium. He locks eyes briefly with Abby, then looks back over the heads of the small group. They stare at him like owls, unblinking, minus the few that are actually crying. He would be amused that most of the tearfully mournful are women, were he not feeling the same way. "He was a good husband, good father. Most men talk about sports, or their jobs. Richie was always telling a new story about something his family did."

He stops again, hoping that no one notices how white his knuckles are turning. He takes in a shaky breath, unable to bring himself to look at Abby again; he can hear her sobbing from where he stands. He blinks rapidly for a moment, then stands straight once more. "He'll be missed." He finishes weakly. Without another word, he nods to the priest.

A few men rise from the audience (Turbo among them), to help him and the priest lift the casket. The rain hasn't let up at all since the funeral started. They all look to Archy. Archy listens, finding the distinct, higher-pitched sob from where he'd been sitting just a few minutes ago. With a nod, they continue out into the rain, making the priest's robes cling to his body, plastering Archy's hair to his head. Abby follows without hesitation, still wet from her earlier appointment with the weather. Some of the followers are pleased to find a tent set up over the plot, sufficiently shielding it from the elements.

Abby's eyes are almost horror filled when the men begin to ease the coffin into the ground by rope. This is the final step, the point of no return. If they bury him, she'll never, ever see him again. She makes to go to the plot with a hoarse cry, only someone wraps their arm above her chest, pulling her back against them. She doesn't bother fighting back, her body too weak with the wracking wails. Her knees give out, her breath comes up short.

Everything goes black.

She doesn't open her eyes when she comes to. When the first drops of consciousness drip into her mind, she decides first to lie completely still where she is, taking in scent, listening to the sounds around her, feeling the hardness and texture against the backside of her body. She can hear rain, but instead of it pounding on the tarp, it sounds like it's tapping, ever so lightly, on a window. The smell in the air is no longer of precipitation, freshly tilled dirt and grass, mixtures of multiple perfumes and flowers, but of laundry detergent, soap, and some other scent she can't name off right away. Her head is aching, throbbing with each pulse of her heart.

Confusion settles in after the initial gathering of the senses. She begins to wonder why she's lying down, why everything smells so clean, why her head hurts...where she is. She's got to open her eyes. Oh, but the headache...She decides to risk it. _Perhaps if I open them slowly..._She's greeted by a white ceiling, in a relatively dim room. _Well, that tells me a lot. _She tries to sit up, very slowly at first. It takes her a few tries due to the pain in her head, but when she's up, she realizes she's in a bedroom. In the dim light she can tell that the walls are painted a very pale green, sort of a minty color, with a polished wooden floor. There's a bathroom directly in front of the bed, perhaps three yards away, with a closet to its right. An oak dresser occupies the upper right corner, and a door (she assumes it's the way out of the room) stands not far from it.

_Fresh sheets. _She muses, discovering the source of the detergent smell. _But where..._She lifts her right arm, pressing her nose to the delicate skin. _I...The soapy smell is coming from me. That means..._Her stomach plummets. _Did Archy...Did he..._Her hands rush to the sides of her neck, smoothing down the length of her shoulders. _No bra...No bra! He undressed me...and bathed me...and then dressed me again. Bollocks! _Her head instantly begins to ache more. _Wait...how did I end up in bed? I was out somewhere. I was-_ She gasps._ Dad's funeral! What happened? _

She throws the sheets from her body, revealing her black tank-top and sweat pants as she makes a run for the door. _Hold on..._After securing a bra, she retraces her steps. Her eyes are assaulted with bright light from the living room when she throws the door open, making her swing her arms before her face, almost whimpering with pain. She waits for the throbbing to subside before continuing, trying to recall where the kitchen is.

She's not thrown by the lights this time, but rather from the fact that there's a woman sitting at the dinner table with Archy, across from him. She pauses in the doorway for a moment, watching the two, unsure of her next move. Archy makes it for her, motioning her to the table before she can sneak off to an unseen vantage point. He stands, pulling a chair out for her while Turbo fetches a glass of water.

"What happened?" She asks.

Archy barely has time to sit down before she does so, making him hover for a moment over his seat. He eases the rest of the way down with a groan, leaning heavily on one elbow. "You got a little excited," He says calmly, "Very anxious-"

"I fainted?" She cuts in. "At my father's funeral?"

"Panic attack." The woman states. "You were hyperventilating."

"I know what a panic attack is." Abby says quietly. _My head..._ Her eyes squeeze shut, fingers massaging her temples. She stares at the glass of water when Turbo sets it before her (before scurrying off to a different room), eyeballing it but not making a move to go near it.

"You should drink it; The water will help your headache."

"Abby, this is Lizzie. She's a doctor."

Lizzie looks to be somewhere in her mid-thirties, tall, blonde haired. Her gentle eyes are a special sort of blue, almost turquoise due to the light. She smiles softly, offers her right hand. "Hello, Abby."

She studies the hand for a moment. Long, but smooth fingers, attached to unblemished knuckles. She fits her own hand into Lizzie's. _No blisters. Never worked a hard day in her life. _"How is this glass of water going to help me?"

"I imagine you haven't had much to eat or drink...at all, right?"

"Mhm."

"You're dehydrated, therefore your brain isn't functioning properly. This makes it work harder than it has to, and it's a painful process. It can also have an effect on your kidneys...backed up toxins, so on."

"I've researched that a lot of physical illnesses are caused by mental stress." She pops off, reaching for the glass. _Mmm...my throat was more parched than I thought. _

Archy narrows his eyes subtly, giving off the appearance of fatigue rather than suspicion. _Don't think I didn't catch that hint of sarcasm. _

Lizzie nods approval. "That's very true. A combination of the two can be withering."

She takes a few more gulps, squeezing her eyes shut; She's thinking more on the logical side, now. Her headache increases two notches up on the pain scale. The glass is half empty when she sets it back down. _Just like my life, except one-fourth short. _"You have no idea." She whispers under her breath. She begins to fall into her old routine of silence, keeping to herself and her thoughts. After a moment she leans on her elbow, chin cradled in her palm. "What time is it?" She asks no one in particular.

Archy glances at his watch. "Five o'clock."

_I was out for three hours? _"Did I hit my head?"

"No. Lizzie managed to catch you before that happened."

"Then why-..." She glances at Lizzie.

"Archy told me you've had a rough week. Your body was catching up for lost rest."

Abby pinches the bridge of her nose in response.

Lizzie smiles sympathetically. "As a doctor, I suggest you lay down as much as possible. Take the water with you. Don't feel bad about just laying around for a few days, hm?"

She looks at Lizzie again; She can see the knowledge in her eyes, practically spilling with brilliance as she gazes steadily at her. She looks at Archy, his fingers now intwined, pressed against his lips. She notices the bags beneath his eyes for the first time, the black circles. His eyes are practically red with irritation. He looks like he's about to drop, but he looks back at her with just as steady a gaze as hers.

Lizzie follows her line of sight, chuckles softly through her nose. "I would tell you to do the same thing, if I didn't know you wouldn't follow my advice."

His brows creese slightly, but he says nothing.

Abby can feel the air getting thicker from her position between them. She grabs the glass of water, nodding to them. "I believe I'll take your advice, Miss...Elizabeth. I wish we could have met on better terms."

She smiles, lightly. Archy nods as she walks by. The two drag their gazes to one another once Abby's out of the room.

"I've always respected your opinion." He mumbles against his fingers.

Lizzie blinks, slowly. "I didn't say you didn't respect it. I implied that you didn't follow it very often."

He just nods. He's too tired to disagree.

They stare again, measuring each other up. He hasn't changed much since she saw him last...one year ago. His hair has lightened, turned gray in a few synchronized areas, and he's gained a few more lines on his face, but he still looks the same. She hasn't changed a bit. Her eyes still sparkle, her hair still shines with the same golden brilliance. She's gained a little weight, but it doesn't matter to him.

She tilts her chin up a little, strums her fingernails on the table. "Are we back to this again, Arch?" Her voice is almost a whisper, the pain evident. "Just staring at each other? There isn't a bullet-proof shield of glass between us."

Archy shifts his weight, swallows heavily. "I don't know what you mean."

"You know perfectly well what I mean." Her tone retains the same softness, but she knows he can hear a difference. He's always been able to pick up on her subtleties.

He shifts again, then stands. When he returns, he has two glasses of whisky in his hands. "You know how I feel." His voice is nearly a whisper. He downs half the glass in one take, wincing, yet embracing the burn at the same time.

Lizzie sips delicately, as she always has. "The same applies to you."

As though he didn't hear her, he doesn't respond. He raises the glass again, polishing it off.

Lizzie sighs, pushing her glass toward him. "You can finish mine, as usual." Then stands to leave.

"I would appreciate your help...with Abby." He says to her back. "...Please."

She pauses, glances at him sideways. "You still have my number?"

He nods with his eyes closed. "If it's the same one."

She turns to leave again, stopping with her hand on the doorknob. "I'll always be available...for you, Arch."

_**To be continued. Feedback is much appreciated. **_


	4. Over Breakfast

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything pertaining to RocknRolla, save for the characters that are not original to the movie.**

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The sun is shining, and quite inexplicably, this irritates Abby. How can the world be so bright...when she still feels like she's in a downpour? She sits up and swings her legs over the edge of the bed, feet feeling more like cinderblocks than a few pounds of flesh and bone. Her head swims with the abrupt motion, making her upper body sway like Goliath...She even falls mightily when she tries to stand up, knocking her chin on the polished wooden floor. _Right about now is when I decide it's best to just stay in bed. _But she's been in bed since Lizzie suggested she not feel bad about laying around for a few days...approximately four days ago.

She rolls over on her back as multi-colored rods of light shoot across her vision, head beginning to throb. The sunlight, which on a normal day she would find pleasant, makes her eyes clamp shut in a sort of pain that one can only feel when they have a headache. She waits for it to subside before sitting up, legs sprawled out and pajama legs jacked up to her knees. _Today's a school day, _she thinks gloomily. But, it's already an hour past the time classes start. _That's not too bad. I could just be absent for three classes, and be there for the rest of the day. _She gets to her feet with a groan, deciding not to look in the mirror until she needs to brush her hair.

She flips the radio on as she makes her way to the bathroom, determinedly not looking at the mirror while reaching for the blue and white toothbrush next to the sink. _"And today, it looks like it's going to be a pleasant 21*C in the London area, partly cloudy with a 30% chance of rain. Now, on to our music selection! Here are The Pretty Reckless with "Make Me Wanna Die"..." _She turns the radio off before the piece can get to the fourth note, resumes brushing her teeth. If she listens to the lyrics, there's no guarantee she won't cry. It scares her how much she agrees with just the title of the song alone. Need she put herself through the torment of listening to it all the way through? Even partly?

She dresses in all black, from her skivvies to the wristband she uses to cover the five day old cuts in her left wrist. She decides on a black tank-top with a loose track jacket, semi-baggy cargo pants, and yes, black Chucks. Eventually, she gets up the courage to look in the mirror for hair grooming. Her eyes are wholly bloodshot, green irises dull, pupils empty. This is what she was trying to avoid...seeing the slow death of herself. She swallows hard and tries not to look at her face anymore, focusing on the mess of blonde hair, taming it, and pulling it back into a low ponytail.

Archy is sitting at the table in the kitchen when she finds him, reading the newspaper. He lowers it at the sound of her footsteps, offering a subtle smile. "Morning...Feeling better?"

Abby swallows, throat already dry at the thought of human interaction. "Uhm...I could eat." Her voice is hoarse, a timid whisper. She takes a seat across from him.

_Good sign. _He folds the paper in half, now, drapes it across his lap while he looks in the direction of the kitchen. "Mrs. Peters, could we get another plate for Abby?"

"Be right there, Arch." The voice drifts sweetly from an area in the kitchen that Abby can't see. It's Cockney, like Archy's, but somehow a little smoother, like someone spread a light layer of syrup over it.

"Would you like some coffee? Tea?" Archy offers.

She glances side-long at him, tilting her head. "Coffee, please."

He nods. "Mrs. Peters-"

"I heard, I heard." Much like Abby had envisioned, the voice belongs to an older lady, somewhere in her late fifties. Her face is round, body stout. Her hair has grayed from age, more so than Archy's, and her eyes are striking blue for how old she is. She flashes Abby a bright smile, placing gently a plate full of eggs, toast, and sliced ham before her. "There you are, dear. Do you like anything in your coffee?"

She already likes this Ms. Peters, for some reason or other. Perhaps it's her kind older face, or her grandmother attitude. She doesn't know, and doesn't care to know; this lady has already made her feel that the world isn't as dim as she thought. "Milk and sugar, please."

Mrs. Peters looks over at Archy with mock surprise, brows raising playfully as she turns toward the kitchen again. "Milk and sugar, _please!_ So polite! She can't have come from your lot, Arch!"

Abby cocks her brows. Archy allows for a soft snort, nothing more as the newspaper is unfolded again.

"What are you doing today?" She takes a hefty bite of eggs, cutting away at the ham while she chews; It's like she's realized she hasn't eaten in four days, and the hunger is eating away at her from the inside out; she has to cram her mouth to stop this invisible cannibal.

The paper lowers again. "I've got to go back to work...unfortunately." His head tilts, brows furrowed. "Why?"

She shakes her head, cramming both toast and ham into her cheek. "Jus' wond'rin'." She says with her mouth full.

He stares at her for a moment, looks down at his watch. "Isn't today a school day?"

Mrs. Peters places the coffee before Abby, and before she can warn her of how hot it is, she's already gulped down half the cup. She shares a glance with Archy, disappearing into the kitchen yet again.

"Yes, sir."

He tilts his head, eyes a little brighter, that subtle smile tickling his lips again. _Well, didn't baby brother do good with this one? _"Come now. You don't have to call me _sir_." He tisks.

She looks down at her plate sheepishly, poking at another piece of ham. "What about _Uncle_?"

"_Uncle _will do nicely." He smiles, even though she's not looking at him any more. He must admit, his brother has done nicely; he's already beginning to like this, very much. He watches her for a moment, impressed with the speed with which the food is disappearing.

He begins to tell her to slow down, but Mrs. Peters beats him to it, scolding her gently as she refills her coffee. "There's more where that came from, luv. I'll not have you choking at my table."

She jumps, startled, giving each of them a chagrined expression, burying part of her face in her coffee.

"It's alright, Mrs. Peters, she hasn't eaten in a while." He finds Abby's expression endearing, for some reason. He hardly ever saw Richie with a look of embarrassment on his features. _That's it. _He decides. _She's practically a carbon copy of him. I'll be seeing a lot more of him in this one...More than I saw in the man himself. _

"That may be," Mrs. Peters starts, "But it's still no excuse." Back to the kitchen.

Archy chuckles. "That's Mrs. Peters for you. Don't mind it...she's always like that."

She shoves the remainder of the ham in her mouth as a response, washing it down with more coffee.

"When do you plan on going back to school?"

The question stumps her. She eases her silverware in the middle of the plate as she looks up at him, wincing at the slight clinking sound they make. "I don't know." She sighs.

He reaches for his coffee, sipping delicately. "Don't miss too many days, alright?" His voice is serious, despite the way his eyes continue to smile. "You don't want them to kick you out."

"Okay." She yawns. She cocks her head after a moment, brows furrowing. "Uncle, what do you for a living?" Her expression doesn't show it, but she inwardly kicks herself. _Don't sound like such a child._

Archy pauses for a moment, easing his coffee cup back down to the saucer. He folds the newspaper in half as he thinks up an answer, setting the paper on the table. "I work for a very successful businessman." He crosses his right leg over the left, folding his hands in his lap.

"What kind of businessman?"

_Inquisitive, are we? _"Real-estate." It's not a complete lie. Lenny buys and sells land, buildings, so on. He just left out the part about crayfish...and garrotes...and hand guns. He tilts his head in turn, making an attempt to shift the attention from himself. "What did Richie do for a living? Same thing five years ago?"

"Mhm. Small-time insurance salesman. He repaired computers on the side, when he had time."

_Insurance. Computers? Would anyone kill him over those things? _"Do you remember what he was doing the day he...passed?"

Abby takes in a deep breath, lets it out slowly. _It's too early for this. _"As far as I know, he was working late at his insurance job. I called the police when he wasn't home by midnight. He...wasn't answering his mobile, and I got worried. He'd always call and let me know if he was going to have to pull an all-nighter."

Archy takes all this in accordingly, thinking it all through and filing it away in that special cabinet at the back of his brain. "Did your father have any enemies?"

Her eyes clamp shut, breaths coming a little shallow. "I don't know why he would. He was so good at making friends."

"Do you think he may have had a disgruntled insurance customer?"

"Uncle Archy." She says quickly.

He blinks, noting her uneven breathing, her clamped eyes, fingers massaging her temples, adding them up.

"I'm sorry." She says quietly.

He shakes his head. "Don't be, don't be. _I'm _sorry. It's too soon."

"Yes." She nods. "Thank you. I want to help, really. I just..." She sighs.

"I know." He assures. "I understand." The soothing tone in his voice hides the awkward feelings that begin to build up in his thoughts. _You've just made her emotional again. Good job. _He almost thanks any form of deity he can think of when his mobile begins to chirp, turning his head to the side as he presses it to his ear. "It's Archy."

"Archy. I have some business I need to take care of."

"Alright, Len. Where do you want me?"

"The warehouse, and hurry up."

"On my way." He closes his mobile, opening his arms simultaneously. "That's the boss."

"Okay." She says quietly.

He finishes off his coffee, stretches when he stands. "Are you going to stay here all day?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. I might go to the library later...Is that alright?"

A nod. "That's fine. Do what you want...Just stay out of trouble, you hear me?" He shoves his hands in his pockets, giving her a side-glance.

She snorts unenthusiastically. "Don't worry about it."

Mrs. Peters enters the room again, this time from a different angle. She doesn't see the confused expression coming from Abby, seeming to ask, _When did you leave the kitchen? _She helps Archy put on his trench coat, slipping it up his arms and over his shoulders. She even goes to the extent of coming around in front of him to straighten it, patting the side of his face before pointing a stern finger. "Please be careful, Arch."

Archy rolls his eyes, sighs impatiently. "Mrs. Peters-"

"I mean it, Archy. Stay away from those abandoned lots."

He smirks, takes a step back to put a little more distance between them. "Ah, but that's where the highest profits are, Mrs. Peters."

Mrs. Peters scoffs, looks at Abby. "He'll never learn, this one. Always running for the best profit. Never mind his own health!"

Archy shakes his head. "Mrs. Peters's room is just down the hallway from yours-"

"I'll be cleaning all day, and I'll need to go to market."

"Alright, alright." He waves a hand dismissively. "She's got my number, and Lizzie's, if you find you need anything outside of Mrs. Peters's help."

Abby just nods, crossing right leg over left, folding her hands in her lap. Archy, Mrs. Peters, and even Turbo (having just walked in), all stare at her. She looks exactly like Archy, same posture, same neutral stare, all in a female body. She even uses the same tone when she asks them, "What's the matter?"

Archy shakes his head...again. "Nothing. I'm off," And turns quickly on his heel, Turbo following suit.

Mrs. Peters motions to the empty plate and coffee cup. "A-...All done there, luv?"

"Is something wrong, Mrs. Peters? Have I done something?"

"No, no." She says quickly. "You've done nothing wrong, it's alright. We've all just got a lot to do, you see. Everything has just sort of...been on hold for a few days."

She furrows her brows. "Mrs. Peters, has everyone been waiting for me to get well? Is that what the looks were all about?"

Mrs. Peters blinks. "Looks? What looks?"

Abby leans forward a little in her chair, sticking her chin out just a little. "Everyone was staring at me...I was wondering what it was about."

She pauses, dishes in hand, before smiling abruptly (a bit skittishly, in Abby's opinion). "It's just nonsense, dear. We're not used to having something so pretty around the house, is all. Don't worry your little blonde head about it." She disappears into the kitchen, dishes clinking loudly.

_Okay. That wasn't odd in the least. _She sits up in her chair, decides to stand. "Oh, Mrs. Peters?"

Her head whips around the corner, eyes slightly bewildered. "Yes, ducky?"

"Archy mentioned that you have his...I'm guessing...mobile number? Lizzie's too. Could I have those? I just want to have them if I decide to go out. You have a mobile too, right? I might need your number as well...You know, just for safety."

Mrs. Peters stares at her, expression blank, as though she can't comprehend anything the teen is saying. She snaps straight up without warning, posture ram-rod straight. "Oh! Of course, luv, of course! Let me get those for you."

Abby stares at the place the woman had been standing not seconds ago, almost wanting to scratch her head in contemplation. _Is something wrong with me?_

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"I'll ask you one more time. If you give me the correct answer, I'll send you back home safe and sound, in a clean set of clothes. If it's the wrong answer," Lenny motions to a burly man in the corner, red-haired, hands cradling a semi-automatic shotgun, "Roger, over there, will be taking care of you, instead. Now," He looks over the rims of his shades at the beefy group of men surrounding the dark haired man, nodding to them. "Gentleman."

Archy watches from the side, weight leaned on his hand against the little table shoved against the wall. The men don't waste any time, some automatically rearing back their legs to plant their feet in the unfortunate fellow's gut. One lifts him up off the ground, holding him against the wall by the neck, while another hammers his nose and mouth with his fist, sending a small spatter of blood across the brick wall.

Lenny reaches for the whistling tea kettle next to the table, cup and saucer in hand. "Something wrong, Arch?"

Archy blinks, slowly bringing his gaze to the sunglasses. "No, no. Sorry. 'Bit distracted, is all...Just thinking."

Lenny adds cream and sugar to his steaming tea, nodding. "Sorry about your brother, Arch. I apologize for not making it to the funeral."

"No, it's alright. _Things-_" His gaze reverts to the man being beaten, now on the floor in fetal position. "Come up."

"Was that the last of your family, then?"

"Biological? No." That subtle Archy-smile begins to tickle his lips. He fights the urge, looking back at the man...now not moving. "He's still very much alive in his daughter."

The tea cup stops mid-way to Lenny's lips, eyes sliding across the table and up to Archy's face, before he turns his head. "He had a daughter?"

Archy turns his head quickly, surprised at Lenny's sudden interest. "Yeah. Sixteen. Awfully quiet. Very shy." He snorts. "Inquisitive little thing."

Lenny stands quietly, nodding. "Daughter." He mumbles. "Oi! Gentleman! Don't kill the man!" He turns back to Archy, small smile plastered onto his lips. "Well, I'll have to meet this young lady, won't I?"

_What's this about, then? _"Yeah, alright. We can have you over for dinner. Mrs. Peters has been asking about you. It'll be...interesting, yeah?" He chuckles.

_Oh, this will be very interesting. Very interesting, indeed. _He nods, walking to the bloodied man on the floor as he sips his tea.

**_To be continued...Feedback would be appreciated. _**

**You know what I dislike? When people favorite my stories, but they don't review. If they favorite a story, there's obviously something they like about that story, and they obviously have good things to say about it, right? I really do appreciate feedback. It doesn't have to be a grand paragraph. It could just be how much you enjoy it, or constructive criticism, or whatever you wish to say. I'm flattered by you who have favorited my story. Could you flatter me more with a comment? A pointer? Even something you hate about the writing! I will STILL appreciate your comment! Thank you. :)**


	5. Meeting Mr Cole

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything pertaining to RocknRolla, save for the characters that are not original to the film.**

It's a nice pub, not boisterous, not so chatty that people sitting directly across from one another have to shout so that the other can hear. Situated in a little corner in Piccadilly, it gives the diner (or drinker) the illusion of privacy, despite being a very public place. The interior is splashed with color, the multi-toned carpets filled with reds and blues, the walls concrete with a sporadic paint pattern (paint thrown directly from the cans to the walls). Abby likes it, the array. It reminds her of candy, each color representing a different flavor. It reflects the attitudes of the people that come in, as well, people with an inspiration for art, or musicians playing out a beat with anything within reach. Even the tables have a personality, scenes from movies, books, or paintings printed right onto the tables and covered with a glass blanket.

Abby sits back, allowing the atmosphere to flow around her, through her, _inside _of her. She sips lightly at her beer, glancing at her lunch buddy. "How long have you known my uncle, then?"

Lizzie also goes at her own beverage, a light wine. "About ten years. Your father introduced us not long after your mother passed."

She tilts her head back, brows knitting. "My father introduced you?"

A young man wearing a white button-down and a black apron approaches the table, grinning as he deposits a plate before each female. He pays particular attention to Abby, ensuring that he makes more eye contact with her than Lizzie. "Ladies." He says, still staring at said person. "Enjoy your meal."

Lizzie waits for him to walk away before raising her brows at Abby. "You should get his number when we're done here."

Abby snorts, pops a chip in her mouth. "Nah. I'm not interested in boys right now. Pursuing them so quickly after my father's death would feel like stabbing him in the back." She takes a sip of beer, pops another chip in her mouth, then a piece of fish.

Lizzie stares at her for a moment, raising her fork and knife to check the center of her steak. "Don't you think your father would want you to be happy, Abby?"

She nods her head, several times, reaching for the beer again. "Yeah."

Her hands turn over, gesturing with her palms as her brows arch again. "Well?"

Another bite of fish. "No," She shakes her head, "I couldn't do it. I can't focus on guys right now...I don't want to. First I need to stop mourning, and I need to get back into school, and my marks. When I'm back on my feet again," She gestures in the direction of the waiter with her head, "Maybe I'll do something about a boyfriend. Now," Her eyes light up (but only slightly) with enthusiasm, her weight shifted forward. "Tell me about you, dad and Archy. How did you come across them?"

She takes a sip of wine, a bite of bread. "I bought insurance from your dad." She smiles. "He was a good salesman, really seemed to care about his clients. Not some fake, "Oh, we care about you", no. He seemed genuinely interested in what was going on in my life."

Abby grins. "That's dad, alright. He understood people, always enjoyed each person's unique personality."

Lizzie smiles, takes a bite of salad. "Mhm. He noticed how sad I seemed to be that day. My boyfriend had broken up with me the week before...I was heartbroken. There was supposed to be some party for your dad...I think it was for his birthday. He said he could introduce me to a few..."blokes", as he put it. Archy was one of them, and I happened to like him the most."

She closes her eyes, a peaceful sort of smile caressing her lips as she seems to savor the bit of information. After a moment, she allows a sigh to flow quietly over her teeth, and her eyes open half-way, like she's in some sort of bliss. "It feels so good to talk about him." Her brows slant. "You know? Archy's been walking around on egg shells...People avoid the topic, when really, it's what you need to talk about."

Her partner nods, polishing off a large chunk of the steak. "Yeah, I know exactly what you mean. Archy'll figure it out soon enough, just give him some time. He's wrestling with grief too, you know? As far as brothers go, they were very close."

"Oh, yeah?" She murmurs. "If they were so close, why hadn't they seen each other in so long?"

Lizzie remains still for a moment, sighs. "Prison changed a lot of things about Archy."

Her brows knit. "Like what?"

"Well," She starts quietly. "For one, he wasn't so apt to showing his feelings when he got out...It desensitized him. You can't show too many emotions when you're in prison, Abby; inmates will use anything they can against you." She snorts. "Archy didn't even like me coming to the compound...Didn't like the way even the guards looked at me. Two," She takes a hefty gulp of wine. "It ate away at his patience. He doesn't beat around the bush, and he doesn't expect you too, either. He was on a strict schedule for four years. On that schedule, wasting time is a punishable act. If you waste Archy's time, he'll be sure to punish you in some way or another.

"Three," Here, she pauses. The sparkle in her eyes tones down a bit, solemnity darkening the turquoise to a deep blue. Her breaths come in shallower, oozing streams as her fingertips play delicately at the stem of her wineglass, gaze penetrating the liquid, absorbing it...looking right through it. She looks back up at Abby, suddenly, and shakes her head, forcing a smile. "He's got past it all now, though, hasn't he?"

Once again, Abby's brows furrow. Her thumb and forefinger had been playing with her bottom lip, pulling on it, rolling it between her prints. They stop, allowing it to snap back to her gums like a rubber-band. "Wait," She sits up a little straighter, "What's number three?"

Lizzie goes for the wine again, this time a little slower, and sighs into her glass. "We just got into a lot of rows, that's all. Part of the loss of patience."

Abby stares at her. Then, very slowly, leans slightly over the table, weight resting heavily on the elbows. She looks her straight in the eyes, murmurs, "Did he hit you?"

She gasps, shaking her head rapidly. "No! Heavens no! Archy isn't that type, not anywhere near it!" Now she, too, leans across the table, until her nose is only a few inches from her friend's. "You listen to me, and you listen good. Archy will never, ever hit you because he's angry with you. He may hit one of his mates, yeah, but never you."

Abby tilts her head to the left. "Why is that, then?"

"Because you're a woman. He won't hit you unless it's an extreme circumstance. He's got strong shoulders, Abby; Archy can take an insult. He can take gossip and lies being spread around about him, he can take name calling. Hell, you could probably deck him in the chest a few times, but he won't hit back."

She stares at her, long and hard. Eventually, she shakes her head, leans back into her chair. "You're lying to me."

Blink. "I beg your pardon?"

She takes in a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "He hit you. There's a very obvious pain in your eyes when you talk about this subject."

Maybe she's imagining it, but Lizzie's eyes seem to grow even darker...this time in a more threatening way. "You watch who you call a liar, Abby." Her voice is low, but she may as well be shouting with the amount of menace she put into her tone. "He never hit me, and he'll never hit you. Do you know what he did when I hit him?" She allows a heavy silence to stand for effect. "He _hugged _me."

Dumbness. That's what she's reduced to. She blinks, several times, staring stupidly. Finally, she remembers to breathe. "_You_ hit _him_?"

Lizzie leans back, reaching for a cigarette. "He had it coming."

She gestures with her palms, bending the fingers a few times. "Well? Come on, then. Why did you hit him? Where?"

Large, large inhalation of smoke. She lays her left arm atop her stomach, resting her elbow on the wrist, cigarette dangling just a few inches from the lips. "We were having a row." A puff of smoke comes out with each word. "It had been a hard couple of months. He was losing me, and he knew it. I was just so..._irritated _with him at that point."

"Why?"

"I was upset with the changes that prison had inflicted on him, and I was letting him know it. He was trying to reason...I wasn't. I was beyond reason at that point. It was just...rage, and emotions on my part. I got so angry that I just started to strike his chest, over and over again." She pauses for a moment to glance at Abby. "There was nothing to throw, you see. So," She looks away again, focusing on one of the paint splotches on the wall. "I hit him." She snorts, shakes her head. "And Archy...He just stood there and took it." _Like a knight...My dark knight in smudged black armour._

"I guess it was starting to hurt him,"_ Not near as much as it did mentally_. "Because, he reached up and grabbed my wrists...not even very hard, and silently soothed me into stopping. That's when he hugged me. He pulled me by the wrists toward him, and wrapped his arms around me. I tried to shove him off, naturally, but he wouldn't let go. He just stood there, like always, and rubbed my back until I calmed down. He tried to reason again; I could tell he was hurt. He was throwing out reasons we should stay together...I was throwing out reasons why we should break up. It all ended that night." _Just like my life. _"I packed my things and moved out. It's been a year." _Feels like it's been ten. _

Abby sits quietly, the remainders of her fish and beer forgotten. She breathes in, timidly, before speaking. "You seemed alright a few days ago. You were speaking fine, I thought, until the tail-end of the conversation."

Lizzie takes another puff off the cigarette, half wasted while she'd been speaking. "It's not the first time we've seen each other...It's the most we've spoken, though. We'll see what happens." She offers a smile...genuinely.

Abby offers her own little smile, remembering her beer. "It's gonna be alright." She takes a gulp, grins.

Her brows arch, eyes starting to sparkle. "Oh, yeah? Why do you think that?"

She shakes her head, taking another gulp. "It's just a hunch."

"Have you got everything you need?"

Mrs. Peters stands over the black stove in the kitchen, panhandle in one hand, wooden spoon in the other. She stirs a white sauce, one of her own recipe, for tonight's dinner. She briefly pauses, only long enough to send a glare over her shoulder. "Yes, Archy, for the third time. You know the rules: Either help me while I'm cooking, or get out of the kitchen."

Oh, yes, he knows those rules, quite well, in fact. He only lingers every now and then to annoy her. He finds it delightful to push her buttons once in a while, finally able to release a bit of his crude humor on someone who will actually appreciate it, even if she doesn't show it. His brows arch, eyes sparkling with amusement as the corners of his lips pull back, just enough to reveal a peak at his crooked front tooth. "Alright, alright. No need to get agitated. I'm leaving."

He doesn't leave, however. He creeps up behind Mrs. Peters, just close enough for the inside of his arm to brush her shoulder as he reaches to coat his fingertip with sauce. Mrs. Peters is quick, however, having raised three boys of her own in her younger years. She whirls on him, smacking the top of his hand with the spoon, managing to successfully whack his wrist against the hot edge of the pan. Archy jerks his hand back with a slight yelp, the playful spark still in his eyes despite the singeing pain. He sucks the sauce from the top of his hand while the other massages the burn.

Mrs. Peters tisks, depositing the spoon in the sauce so she can place her fists on her hips. "You scatterbrained git! That's what you deserve! Trying to grab a taste of the works while they're still in the making. I told you, if you're not helping, you're just in my way!" She bends around the corner, motioning to Abby. "Darling, would you come stir the sauce, please, so it won't burn?" She turns back to Archy, shaking her head again. "Come here, you silly cheek."

Abby watches with great amusement as Mrs. Peters leads Archy to the sink, rubbing his burn with soap before putting it under the tap. She shakes her head, grabs the spoon. "Is it always like this?"

Both adults turn their heads, Mrs. Peters now rubbing the wound with light little circles. "What? Archy behaving like an insolent child? Yes, it occurs every other dinner." The doorbell rings. She glances nervously at Archy, then at the door. "That can't be him already, can it? Dinner isn't for a good half hour."

Archy shakes his head. "I don't know. It shouldn't be...Not this early."

"Oh, I invited Lizzie." Abby says casually. At both adult's silence, she adds, "I...hope that's okay?"

Mrs. Peters is quick to answer...too quick. "Ah, well, that's fine, dear! The darling woman hasn't had a decent meal with us in ages." She glances at Archy, then his wound. "And who's fault is that, now?" Just for emphasis (or is it fun?) she applies a little too much pressure to Archy's wrist.

Unable to pull away, his knees bend, bringing him down a few feet to Mrs. Peters's height while the other hand grips the edge of the sink. "Bloody hell!"

She arches her brows, releasing his hand. "Oh. Did I apply too much pressure? Sorry, luv. I'll know better next time." She bustles off from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron as she goes to answer the door.

Abby looks apologetically (somewhat fearfully) at Archy, toning the heat down on the stove. "Sorry, Uncle. I didn't think you would mind if I brought a guest."

_She looks so fragile. Why is she so timid again? _"It's fine, Abbs. Just for future reference, though, let us know sooner, alright?" He smiles, briefly, moving to dry his hands on the towel dangling just a few inches from Abby's thigh. He pauses when she flinches, knitting his brows as he tugs it off the handle of the oven door. "You alright?"

She nods. "Yeah. I zoned out for a second...You startled me."

They're interrupted by two sets of footsteps coming toward them, one heavy, one light. A moment later, Mrs. Peters reenters the kitchen, a one Miss Elizabeth Silverberry in tow. Abby smiles, happy to see her new friend, despite having seen her only a few hours prior. Archy finds that he can only stare, for now. She's wearing her little black dress with the short black heels...his favorites on her. He finally manages a nod, a civil greeting, before he's shooed out of the kitchen to wait in the living room.

A long, heavy sigh hisses past his teeth as he drops himself down on the couch. He notes with no particular pleasure the popping sounds coming from his joints, the slight ache in his lower back. _I'm getting old...too old. _He thinks, a slight bitterness to his inner voice. _Lizzie doesn't seem to think so. _Something responds. True. She seemed to hold the same light for him a few days ago. _But why? _He leans his head back, allowing it to sink against the cushion.

A good twelve years separates them. It's not the first time he's thought about this. He would bring it up to her every now and then, when he'd hit an uncharacteristic low of self-confidence. All she would say in reply was, _"Love has no boundaries." _He would only swallow and stare at her, and she would find ways to prove her statement. His eyes glaze over as he thinks about those times...any of the times they had been _together_, before shaking his head. _Another time._ The couch shifts. It's only a light shift, but enough to alert him to someone else's presence. He opens his eyes, allows his head to loll in the direction of the other being.

Turquoise eyes stare back. "Hello."

Suddenly, he finds that his oxygen supply has been cut off. All of those images rush to his head when he looks at her, and he finds that all he can do is stare in response. He coughs a few times, trying to remember how to breathe. "Lizzie." He says weakly.

Her eyes open up a little more as her brows slant, head tilting toward the cushion. "Are you alright?"

He nods...a little too vigorously. "Yeah, yeah."

Silence. An awkward silence. Not just for Archy, but both parties. Lizzie crosses one wrist over the other, drumming her fingertips on her left knee. Nothing is coming to mind, nothing that isn't bland. She attempts to stare back, going with the most dull small-talk question that comes to her tongue first. "How is work?"

Archy ponders this question for a moment. When _was _the last time someone had asked him about work? Long ago, he guesses, because he can't remember. Everyone he knows (excluding Abby) has knowledge of what he does for a living, therefore, no questions are ever asked.

"Are you still in the same line of work?" She asks quietly.

He nods once, crossing right leg over left, folding his hands in his lap in his classic "Archy-posture". "Yeah, I still work for Lenny." He dissects her expression, her relaxed body language. Lizzie has never liked his job, which has always puzzled him about her feelings. He continues, finding no trace of disapproval. "It's been alright...Nothing major. Lenny's actually eating with us tonight."

Her expression remains neutral. "I see."

He chews on the corner of his bottom lip, glancing at the clock on the wall opposite them, then back. "Abby helping Mrs. Peters, then?"

A tiny smile tugs at the corners of her lips. "Mhm. She seems very eager to help...She seems very eager in general." She pauses, giving him a side-long gaze. "She's very intelligent, Arch. Extremely polite...Doesn't take much to put her in her place-"

"Did she give you any trouble?"

"No. I had to correct her during a small fragment of the conversation during lunch, but it didn't give me any trouble. She's a good listener, picks up on little things. You shouldn't have any problems keeping her."

He nods again. "Good, good. What did you have to correct her over?"

She holds her breath for a moment. "She called me out on something. It was just a misinterpretation, no big deal." Another pause. "Archy, did you ever find out if she's-"

The doorbell rings. Archy gives her an apologetic expression before standing. "Hold that thought."

"Ello, Arch. Not too early, I hope?" Lenny's smile is warm, a rarity in his line of work. He holds out a dark bottle with a red label, allowing himself inside when Archy opens the door a bit wider. "Thought you might enjoy a bit of this."

Archy smiles, cradling the gift lightly in his elongated fingers. "That's quite kind, thank you."

Lizzie, not wanting to be rude, is the next to approach, holding her hand out with her classic "business-smile". She ignores Archy's smirk (the only man that can tell it's fake), and shakes Lenny's hand. "Mr. Cole, I haven't seen you in some time."

Lenny grasps her hand without hesitation, eyes darkening a little as he kisses her smooth knuckles. "No need for formalities, Liz. I hope you've been well?" He continues holding her hand, smiling like a wolf.

"Archy, dinner's on the-" Mrs. Peters freezes mid-sentence, her eyes lighting up like neons, a grin so happy attacking her lips that it tugs them nearly to her ears. "Lenny! I haven't seen you in a while!" She rushes up to him before he can get out a word, hugging him with so much effort it makes him groan. "Why are you being such a stranger? Where've you been?"

"Work has been murder, Delilah." He wheezes (only Archy catches the irony). He hugs her briefly, prying himself away as soon as she allows. "Haven't been able to get away from it in quite a while."

Mrs. Peters laughs, a jolly bellow from the pit of her stomach. It ricochets off the walls, attacking every inhabitant's ears until they ache. "Oh, I know how that is! Come on, luv! Have a seat! Have a seat!" She takes his hand, practically dragging him to the table.

Archy and Lizzie share a gaze, both chuckling quietly to each other. This is one thing they've definitely missed: Mrs. Peters acting like an absolute child in a sweet shop whenever Lenny's around.

"And who is this young lady? I don't believe I've met you before."

Abby spins around with a start, not accustomed to being addressed so loudly from behind.

Archy smiles at his boss, motioning to Abby with an outstretched arm. "Len, this is my niece, Abby-"

"Pleasure to meet you." He cuts in. He holds her hand tightly, staring directly in her eyes while he shakes it. "Lenny Cole."

She can't quite put her finger on it, but something seems wrong about this guy. His gaze seems to penetrate her pupils, trying to stare into the very depths of her soul, rather than at her. She tries to gently peel her hand out of his, but he's got a vice grip. "Mr. Cole." She says quietly. "Pleasure to meet you." She avoids his eyes, fixing hers instead on a point just above his head.

Lenny takes note of this, bends his head sideways and down to get closer to her face. "Archy's told me all about you. Sorry about your dad...That's quite a shame."

Now she really doesn't look at him. Pity parties are of the past. Only happy things involving her dad are allowed. She moves her gaze now to his right temple, keeping it on his sideburn. "Thank you, Mr. Cole."

He can feel her pulse speeding up between the confines of his fingers and palm. He files this away, too, and finally drops her hand like it had burned him. With that same "warm" smile, he turns to the other three adults, motioning to the food-laden table. "Well, are we just going to stand here?"

"So, Abby, where do you go to school?"

The question shouldn't make her uncomfortable, but it does. She picks at her food, trying to decide if she should lie or not. If she lies, then Archy might ask questions...or worse, might believe her. If she tells the truth, this creep will know where she is most of the day. _Then again, out of hundreds of students, school security the way it is, he wouldn't be able to find me, yeah? Unless he found out about my classes, and where I go afterwards. _"Knightley."

Lenny tears into a piece of asparagus, taking off half of it in one go. "Knightley? Not sure I'm familiar with it."

"It's not one of London's more renowned schools," She says quietly, "Just a little place near Trafalgar Square. You'd miss it if you weren't looking for it."

"What's your favorite class?" Lizzie asks.

Abby stares at her baked chicken, not really looking at it, but thinking, as the ghost of a smile plays at her lips. "I haven't got a favorite; there are far too many subjects that I enjoy."

"Such as?"

"Art and music, literature, science. I have a tendency to lean more towards art, though."

Lenny files this information away, thankful that Lizzie has begun to ask the questions; the girl is more comfortable with her, which doesn't really surprise him. He fancies himself as intimidating, enjoys the thought that people (not just females), are submissive to him. Smart people fear him. Stupid people learn quickly from the wages he deals them.

He hides a smirk behind his wine glass, looking at Abby studiously. He notes that her eyes remain down cast most of the time, a yielding (or shy?) gesture. She doesn't speak unless someone addresses her, remaining silent and vigilant the rest of the time. She's very intelligent, from what he can gather when she allows her voice to be heard, but she doesn't seem to hold any suspicions for him when he looks at her...only disquiet.

If he didn't know any better, he would swear Archy was the father; the green eyes are a dead giveaway of their relations, along with facial structure, the build of their hands and noses. The only things that don't quite match are the blonde hair, ears (must be from her mother), and her speech. She doesn't have the rough Cockney, like her uncle. No, her words are well refined, like someone had gone to lengths to ensure her pronunciations would be smooth, clear...almost have a gentle quality to them.

He's brought back to reality when said girl looks timidly his direction, seeming to feel his piercing gaze. He smiles charmingly at her, going at the last piece of chicken and sauce on the plate, along with the final bite of asparagus.

He doesn't linger long after dinner. After all, he's got wine aplenty warming his belly, a large dinner behind it. He's not one for sitting around and talking anyway...not unless it's business related. He bids each of them farewell equally (with the exception of Mrs. Peters, having had to peel her off his neck, yet again), and waits until the door is firmly closed behind him before turning to his driver.

"Well?"

Lenny shakes his head. "No, it doesn't look like it. We'll keep a strong eye on her...just to be certain."

_**To Be Continued...**_

**Once again, thank you to my reviewers, SelensLegacy, and G.G. Blythe. Please keep it up. :) To everyone that reads but don't review, I appreciate that you stop by...however, a review WOULD be flattering. :D **


	6. Anatomy

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything pertaining to RocknRolla, aside from characters that are not original to the movie.**

* * *

"So, tell me about this uncle, then. What's he like?"

Abby walks sullenly down the sidewalk, thoughts deadpan. Normally, she enjoys school. The right to educate herself is one that she very much likes to exercise. Her brain absorbs all the knowledge like a sponge, soaking up each last little detail; little details are the most important, after all. She's classified by all the other students as a nerd, sometimes a kiss-up. But, if she had the clothing and the attitude like that rich kid, she would be that super smart, popular girl (though she'd abhor it completely) that everyone seems to like. She's never seen the profit of being popular, never will. All she's always wanted is the education.

Today, however, the knowledge felt empty. The lessons didn't hold her attention the way they usually do. She didn't speak with her teachers whenever she had all the opportunities (and they did notice). She didn't hear the conversations of her friends all around her at the lunch table. She simply existed today, a mere casing of skin holding bones, internal organs, tissue (scar tissue in some areas), cartilage, flesh.

She knows she's alive because she can feel her pulse pounding against her throat when she squeezes it too hard, and her lungs begin to burn if she holds her breath for too long. Pain is all she's got to go off of, now. She wonders if her nervous system still works. She looks down at the fingers on her left hand, flexes them in a wave from pinky to pointer. She wiggles her thumb, then follows the palm down to her black bandana-covered wrist. She wonders if it would hurt if she sliced into the skin, through each layer and sublayer. What if she lacerated the cartilage, tore through the thin pad of meat...chipped into the ratio and ulna bones? Would it make her feel like anything more than a walking corpse? It's worth a shot, she decides. A bit of life flutters through her when something jabs her sharply in the ribs.

The source is to her left, a young man of the same age. He's tall and lanky, still learning how to coordinate his awkward body. Black hair, squared off in the back and messy in the front, falls down over his left eye, constantly making him sweep it back. His eyes are warm despite their icy arctic blue, which stand shockingly out from under his thick black brows. Charles (known to his friends as Charlie), would also hold the popularity status, were he not such a geek. No one in the school can really get him to talk about anything aside from video games and science for more than five minutes, other than Abby and Jessica.

He nods to the other side of Abby with his head, a crooked smile tugging at the right corner of his lips. "Jess just asked you a question." He pokes the top of her head lightly, staring at the shiny strands of blonde with playfully furrowed brows. "Anyone in there?"

Abby swats his hand away, feigning annoyance. "I apologize, Jess...my mind was elsewhere."

Jess is half a head taller, easily making Abby the shortest in the bunch. She always wears her hazelnut hair in a high horsetail, effectively keeping it out of her olive-green eyes. She's the rich, born enemy of the most popular girl in the school. She has the smarts, the wit, and the clothing. However, she's known to the student-body as the "voice of the nerds"...the complete opposite of her adversary. "It's alright. I was just asking about your uncle. What's he like?"

Abby considers, stopping for a moment to study their surroundings, hone in her internal GPS on where they are. She nods to their favorite pub, _The Quill_, and continues walking. Not until there's a pint in her hand does she respond. "Mysterious."

"_Mysterious_?" Charlie choruses with Jess.

She nods, takes a sip. "Yeah. I mean, I don't know much about him...Not much at all. He claims he works for a successful businessman...in real-estate."

"_Claims_?" Jess asks. "What, you don't believe him?"

She chews on her lower lip, rests her weight on her elbows. "He just doesn't seem to fit the criteria of _real-estate agent_. He is charismatic, but...I don't know. He's a big guy, muscular...Seems to know his way around firearms."

"Well," Jess starts, "He _is _a man. They build muscle easily. A lot of them know things about guns, cars and explosions that we could care less about."

"Yes, but," Abby continues, "I met his boss a few days ago." She makes a face, reaching again for her pint. "Creeper! Definitely something sleazy about him...and I don't mean that in the _salesman _type way." She shakes her head. "I trust my uncle, but I get the impression he's not telling me everything."

"Well, you _are _a guest in _his _home." Charlie points out.

"Really? I didn't know."

Jess snorts. "I think what Charlie was trying to get at-"

"I _know _what Charlie was getting at. I'm a guest in my uncle's home, therefore he's not at liberty to tell me what isn't my business. But, still, something isn't right here." She leans back in the booth, whispers to herself as she picks up the pint, "Something isn't right."

* * *

Despite what was spoken by Abby about the school, he'd been able to find it without delay. He'd also been able to follow them down the street just as easily. The pub isn't too crowded, containing enough people to make him seem insignificant. He's dressed in all black, from his fedora and tie, right down to his socks and shoes. He sits at a table not too far away from the three teens, listening quietly as he sips at his wine. A yellow writing pad rests near his left hand, a pen between his slender fingers. He listens to the teens talk, writes something down every now and then. He smirks a few times, noting their naivety. This will be much easier than he'd first expected. Much, much easier.

He waits until the teens finish their drinks and leave, before pulling out his mobile. "Yeah, it's me." He pauses. "I don't know much yet. She's a smart one. I don't think she's buying Archy's _real-estate _gig." He pauses again. "I know that she goes to the _National Gallery _after classes, and then the pub." He tilts his head, watching the trio recede down the sidewalk. "Yes, I'll definitely be keeping an eye on her. Thank you, Mr. Cole."

Just as cooly, he hangs up, finishing his wine before leaving.

* * *

He'd known all along that keeping a copy of the key would benefit him. Granted, the man could have moved away, but he knows him; once he finds a place he likes, a place he's comfortable with, he doesn't want to move. He checks the knob first, on the off-chance it isn't locked. It is. The key slides in smoothly, pushing the pins in just the right places, pulling back on the deadbolt when he twists it to the left.

The flat is just as he remembers it; not much has changed about it since he was a boy. The floors are still polished and spotless as ever, all the furniture tidy and windows clean. He almost wants to kick his shoes off before proceeding. Almost. However, it's not in his fashion to act in the favor of others. He goes directly to the one room he knows he's always been forbidden to go in, not thinking twice as he goes through the drawers.

A smirk tugs at his lips when his gaze comes to rest on a pack of cigarettes, second drawer on the right, bottom left corner atop a folded document. His bony fingers wrap around the pack (reds), stows them away in the left jacket pocket after tucking one behind his ear. He leaves the lighter, choosing instead to quench his curiosity about the document.

His brows arch as he drinks brandy straight from the bottle (found previously in the top left drawer), eyes skimming the text, slowly, at first, then again, fervently. _Now that...That is very interesting. Date...Date...1995_-"

"John? Johnny Quid?"

Johnny cranes his neck, stares for a moment at the plump woman standing in the doorway. He takes his feet off the desk, stands from the comfy leather chair with a goofy grin, arms thrown out wide. "'Ello, Auntie! Time hasn't changed you a bit!"

Mrs. Peters lunges at the document in his left hand, a tiny amount of horror visible in the lines on her face. "That's _Mrs. Peters_ to you, John. What are you doing here? Why were you looking at this paper?" She snatches it out of his sticky fingers, folds it back up and holds it tightly against her chest. "You will not breathe a word about-"

"Relax. I just came for drugs and booze, Auntie. Whatever Uncle Arch-"

"Out! Get out of this room!" She starts shoving him to make her point, not stopping until he's a good five feet from the threshold and the door is locked. "You have to leave, John. I want you out before Arch comes by for lunch-"

"You mean he eats, now? How do you manage that? Spoon-feeding?"

"Johnny-"

"Alright, alright. I'll leave...As soon as I speak with Uncle Arch."

"Why? What for?" She clutches the document tighter.

He stares at her for a moment, then the paper. "Though that _would _be an..._interesting conversation_, Auntie, that's not exactly why I'm here." He turns in the direction of the living room, placing himself within short walking distance of the front door.

"Then why are you-"

"I won't be able to stay too long, Mrs. Peters,-" Archy stops short, hand still on the doorknob. He stares at Johnny a good, long time, before he realizes what Mrs. Peters is holding. He shuts the door gently, eyes stopping on Johnny again. "What's going on?" He asks calmly.

"I'm sorry, Archy. I tried to get him to leave."

He glances at her, shaking his head dismissively. "Don't...Don't worry about it, Mrs. Peters. " He straightens, shoves his hands in his pockets. "Johnny Boy."

"'_Ello, Arch!_" He practically squeals. "You've aged. Though, you do seem to still be shrouded in shadows, just like the old days."

He looks at Mrs. Peters, voice barely producing sound as he tilts his head up. "Put it away."

She nods, scurries in the direction of his office.

"Int'resting." Johnny snorts. "Didn't know you had it in you."

"Watch your mouth, John. What do you need?"

"What, I can't just drop by? Say hello?"

"I see you didn't waste time getting to my smokes and liquor."

He smirks. "Just a bonus. I was really looking for cash, but it appears you've gotten smart and stashed it somewhere else."

"You should go on, John. I'm not going to provide for your junkie habits." He starts to brush past him, hoping (yet knowing he won't) leave, like one of those brief headaches one gets when they first wake up.

He doesn't. "You're the second person wanting to rush me out of the place. You'd think I haven't been here before. Something going on? Someone you don't want me to-"

The front door opens. Abby steps in quietly, rucksack on the floor next to the coat rack, door shut behind her, before she notices the two men. She starts, eyes bouncing back and forth between the amusement (or is it awe?) on the face of the stranger, and the hostile, yet calm expression worn by her uncle. She seems to shrink a few inches, head dropping significantly enough to make a tuft of hair fall down across her left eye. "Am...Am I in-interrupting something?" She stutters.

Archy strides forward, lodging himself between the two significantly younger people (almost blocking the girl completely from Johnny's line of view), shaking his head. "No, no. Johnny-boy was just leaving. Why don't you go see if Mrs. Peters needs help with anything?" He doesn't bother to look at her, choosing instead to send a pointed look in Johnny's direction.

Johnny watches the kid glide by, head still dipped low, posture slumped as though being closer to the floor will make her blend with it. "Who's that, then?"

Archy glares, hands balling into fists at his sides. "I believe you saw the paper, now, didn't you?"

Abby pauses just beyond the opening that leads into the spacious hallway, hidden just from sight. _Paper? _She inches toward the mouth of the hall, skinny body flattened against the wall, shoulders tense, nose stopping just inches from the frame.

"I believe I would remember _that _little bird running around your flat."

"Shut it." Archy snaps.

Abby's brows knit together. _Why is he getting so angry?_

"What? So she made a mistake, got off on the-"

_SLAP!_

Abby flinches, clamps a hand over her mouth as Johnny's glasses fly off his face and against the wall, where one of the lenses shatters.

Archy grabs the smaller man by the lapels of his jacket, bends him backward over the nearest couch back. "_Shut it," _He snarls, not even an inch from the junkie's face. "_You poisonous little __toad__."_

She strains her ears for the bits he says after that, but it's too low. Whatever it is, and judging by the stranger's face, she wouldn't want to hear it herself. He's practically growling at the man, a growl so deep in the bottom of his throat it can only be pushed out from the pit of his belly. _I __have__ to find this paper. _She decides.

Archy straightens, suddenly, yanking Johnny up like a used t-shirt, slings him across the room like a sack of rubbish. _"Get out."_

The junkie stoops to pick up his ruined shades, gestures at the gangster with them, unfazed. "You really should do something about that temper, Uncle...You're liable to kill someone...someday." He wiggles his brows, waves one of the stolen cigarettes in the air between them, and leaves.

Archy stares at the closed front door for a moment, curses loudly under his breath. He looks down at the back of his reddened right hand, turning for the hallway with a quick stride.

Abby gasps, frozen for a moment in fear. She turns to run, only realize her footsteps will be a dead giveaway. She thinks for a split nano-second about confronting him. _Who was that? Why'd you hit him? What's this paper he was talking about? Why did you get so angry? _Maybe she could just play stupid, act like she's headed for the kitchen like she didn't witness anything that played out before her.

Too late.

Archy rounds the corner like a bull, coming up short with wide eyes to avoid running into her. He doesn't stop fast enough, however, managing to bump her back a step or two.

Abby yelps, flings her arms up instinctively to protect her face. Two bear paws of hands grab her shoulders and steady her, manage to make her peer fearfully up at the brawny guy.

"Easy, there! You alright?" He asks.

She nods, a little too vigorously. "Uncle." She squeaks.

"Sorry, I didn't hear you coming."

Another vigorous nod. "It's fine." She says quickly, still wide-eyed. She stares at him, chews on her lower lip. "He called you uncle." _Decision made. Confrontation it is._

He cocks his head. "What?"

"Uncle." She says with more confidence. "He called you _uncle_. You hit him, and he called you _uncle_." A nervous lump forms in her throat, makes it difficult for her to swallow.

He stares at her for a moment, eyes narrowing. "How long have you been standing here?"

She begins to wonder about the intelligence of this decision, takes a shaky breath. Dropping her head, she murmurs, "I saw the whole thing. I heard something about a paper, and I stopped to listen, and then I saw how angry you were getting...so I wanted to see what was so significant about a piece of paper."

He studies her bowed head, allows the resignation and fear to seep into his brain. He can feel her shoulders trembling beneath his hands, see her visibly shaking in front of him. _She's scared of you, _his mind whispers, and for some reason, it makes his throat tighten. _Stings, don't it?_ He sighs, allows his right hand to drop to his side, while the other remains on her shoulder. "Look at me." He says quietly.

She tilts her head up, just enough to peer at him from beneath her eyebrows.

A longer, louder sigh whooshes out of his lungs; the other hand comes back up to rest on her shoulder again. "No, come on. _Look _at me." He repeats, a bit forcefully this time.

She lifts her head up, swallows nervously. "Mhm?" It's practically a whimper.

The twinge of pain grows, this time in his chest. He doesn't understand why it takes so much strength to keep his face composed in a mask of tenderness...why he finds himself trying to hide disappointment. His grip tightens gently on her shoulders, thumbs rubbing the ends of her collarbones. "That man that was just here?" He says quietly, motioning toward the front door, "That was my godson. I've been around him since he was just a toddler."

He looks off to the side for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "He's trouble, Abby." His gaze pierces into hers, hands gripping her shoulders just for impact. "_Nothing_ but trouble...and I want you to stay as far away from him as possible, hear? If you see him on the streets, go the opposite direction. If he comes around the flat, don't let him in. If you can't avoid talking to him, if he wants anything..._anything_ at all, from you or me, I want you tell me _immediately._" His brows arch, head cocked to the right. "Got it?"

She nods nervously.

He mirrors her response, thumbs stroking again. "He won't get you anywhere. In _no _way will he ever be able to give you good help, so don't let him get to you. He's sneaky. He knows how to use words to his advantage, which is why I want you to avoid him as best you can."

"Okay." She whispers. She summons up as much courage as she can, forcing herself to look at him directly. "What...What was the paper?"

A long, steady stream of air flows lightly through his nose, and again, he has to look off to the side. His eyes soften when he looks back at her, and he allows his right hand to drop. "It's not important." _Liar._ "A business document. Don't worry about it, alright?" The other hand drops from her shoulder. He gives her a light smile. "How was school?"

_Just like that? He's going to drop that whole situation...Just. Like. That. _"Okay. You know...it was...school."

"Catching up on your marks?"

"Yeah. I turned in everything I missed...Back up to straight A's...again."

This earns a more genuine smile. He nods, pats her on the shoulder. "Good, good." He glances down at his watch, sighs. "I've got to get back to work...Lunch is over, I'm afraid."

"But...You didn't eat anything."

He turns and looks at her from the corner of his eye, surprised with her concern after everything she just witnessed. _Just like her mum..._ "I'll be fine. Stay out of trouble."

She stops in front of the window and watches him fold up into the backseat of a black car, situate himself before...Turbo, she thinks his name is, shuts the door for him, and climbs in himself. _Why would a real-estate agent need a chauffeur? _Even after they drive off, she stares at the spot they'd previously occupied, and scratches her brain over the events that occurred.

* * *

_9:00pm, same day..._

It's always marveled her that such a beautiful blue sky during the day can turn into such a foreboding black ink pad at night. Beams of moonlight slink in and out of the familiar London storm clouds, highlighted a most boring shade of grey by the dull city lights. What used to be inviting tree branches transform into skeletal hands, the bony fingers all reaching out to grasp a tuft of her hair, or an article of her clothing. The temperature, which was a pleasant 21*C earlier in the day, is now a freezing 7.2*C, forcing her to tighten the scarf about her neck and zip up the remaining space in her jacket. Her gloveless fingers shake uncontrollably, dry and red from the cold. She curses herself for forgetting gloves...and her extra thick pair of socks.

_There's nothing to do about it now. _She reminds herself. _I'm already here...No turning back now. _

The black gates of the cemetery seem to have an eerie sort of illumination about them, highlighted by the moonlight. They protest loudly at her when she slowly opens the left side of the gate, leaving just enough room for herself to squeeze in, then close it again. A torch lays at the bottom of her knapsack, but she doesn't retrieve it; the cemetery is a vast ocean of headstones, but she knows exactly where she's going. She weaves in and out of plots like a robot, programed to go solely to one destination, her icy right hand gliding across every stone as she goes.

The ground shifts beneath her feet, tripping her up at times, clinging to her shoes as though the cemetery is a muddy hell that even the ecosystem doesn't want to be apart of. It's all the doing of the earlier rain, making everything seem worse than it is. But, she keeps going, her brain already connected to the prize laying just a few yards ahead of her. She stops, finally, almost in the middle of the boneyard, sinking down to the soggy ground in front of a salt-and-pepper granite tombstone. Her blue-jeans absorb the moisture, mud clinging to her clothing and chilling her legs down to the bones, but she doesn't care. Her trembling fingers reach out, stroke the sculpted letters before her; she doesn't need a torch to know that the letters form the dearest name to her soul: _Richie._

The shout that she's been holding back lodges its way out of her throat, coming out in a choked sob as tears run unchecked down her cheeks, leaving arctic-cold trails behind. "Everything is so out of place!" She yells through the tears. The sobs make her double over, fingers grabbing fistfuls of mud. "I can't trust anyone...Not even your brother!" She throws her head back, wails at the black abyss above her head. "_Why _did you leave? _Why _did you leave me so _alone_?" She pounds at the wet ground with muddied fists, sending bits of Earth flying onto the tombstone, out to the sides, up onto her sleeves and torso. A scream rips through her throat, ravaging her voice box and leaving her soundless for a moment, quiet sobs jerking spastically at her body.

Despite all this, she can still feel the tension. It fills her torso up like a helium balloon, forcing the pressure into her heart, demanding it to pump it out into her veins. It eats away at her until she can't take it anymore, the mixture of the invisible bruising and the thin, chilled air not leaving her enough room to breathe. She reaches with cobra speed to her back pocket, whipping the object out in front of her face without hesitation. The blade of Archy's straight-razor is cold, but ever so inviting. She yanks back her right sleeve, revealing a single scar resting diagonally across her wrist, and allows the blade to do the rest. The liquid running down her arm is nearly scorching compared to the cold. She makes another line. _Warmth. Warmth! _Screams her mind. She goes at it until she has six new wounds vomiting crimson, releasing the built-up pressure in her body like a boiling tea kettle.

She falls limply to the ground, fingers ripping at the Earth to get to the corpse down below. She digs until she can't dig anymore, the emotional and physical exhaustion too much to bear. The sobs play out into a decrescendo of hiccups, the tears narrow down to just a few drops, until they run no more. The girl in question spits out mud and bits of vegetation that worked their way into her mouth during the episode, before she sits up and kisses the granite, the ever beloved name across it. After a few minutes (she doesn't know how many), she drags herself up to her feet with the chunk of polished rock, pulls the sleeve down, and makes her way out.

From the shadows, a figure dressed in all black (even his tie and socks) watches, a notepad and pen in hand. His lips twist up into a disgusted smirk as he jots down everything played out before him, from the agonized sobs to the very last drops of scarlet liquid. He waits for Abby to leave the cemetery before quietly following her down the street, then watches as she stands just beneath the back window of a non-too-fancy, non-too-shabby flat. His eyes feast on her skin as she peals off the filthy clothes, studies and memorizes the curves of her body before she jumps up and climbs through the window, naked, leaving the pile of clothing and knapsack behind.

Now, feeling more jovial than ever, he strolls down the sidewalk, fingertips tapping happily on the notepad in his jacket pocket.

**I know, I know, it's been too long. I apologize! You know that thing? That thing (not the board game) called Life? Yeeeeeaaaahhhhh, you know what I'm talking about. That's why. So, now you know. You know what to do now, right? You click that little bar that says "Review Chapter", and you tell me everything you thought about the writing (even if it's something you completely despise)! So, I would appreciate it. Special thanks to SelenesLegacy, G.G. Blithe, and Ennya for your thoughts. Please keep me posted! Thank you!**


	7. Bloodstream

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything pertaining to RocknRolla, save for characters and plot unoriginal to the movie. Thanks.**

* * *

You'd think it were a holiday, there are so many people. They all shove past one another as though the other is just an inanimate object, kind of like when someone runs their hip into the arm of the couch, or rubs shoulders with the lampshade. A polite few laugh it off and apologize, while others simply glare and continue on their way. Mrs. Peters stands safely to the side; the ingredients of a jar of tomato paste face her. Abby simply stands, shoulders sagging, eyes downcast at the head of the basket.

In passing, one would think she has an odd obsession with her shoes, for that's where her gaze seems to stay. If one cares to take a closer look (which, no one does), they would notice that her eyes don't _look_ at all...they don't even _see_. They seem to only exist, glazed over as they sit in the sockets, her mind wandering over nothing in particular. Every now and then her right pointer finger will twitch, a shiver will travel her spine, but for the most part, she stands absolutely still. It isn't until a basket hits her from behind that she remembers she's in public.

"Oh, dear! I'm so sorry, I-" A brief pause. "Abby! Hello!"

She turns slowly on the spot, eyes still focused on the floor, arms limp and dangling at her sides. The irises sweep slowly up from the person's feet (clad in black stiletto heels), up the well sculpted legs, past the curvy torso, and finally, up into the woman's eyes. She's never noticed before that Lizzie is built to be a model, fit, athletic, rather than a doctor. She's surprised she notices it now, as foggy as her mind is. She feels like she's looking through a pair of dirty glasses; the lenses are covered in small particle debris, making everything look fuzzy and out of place. Where detail should be, only shape and color resides; Instead of the shine in Lizzie's blonde hair, it's just a golden haze. They're giving her headache, and she longs for nothing more than to reach up and take them off...only they don't exist. She looks back down at the heels, blinks twice, long and slow. "How can you walk in those?"

Now Lizzie blinks, looks slowly down at her shoes. Realizing the joke, she smiles, chuckles softly. "Oh, these. Just lots of practice, I suppose." Only when Abby doesn't laugh back does she take a closer look...and what she notices shoots an icy burst of shock into her chest.

The healthy, golden shine that used to make Abby's hair stand out from the crowd is no longer there, replaced by a dull, yellow glare. It reminds her of a pair of gold earrings she'd had once; they looked beautiful and shiny in the package, but after a few weeks of wear and tear, she realized they weren't gold at all...but gold _plated. _They had turned the radius of her piercings green, and though this isn't the case with Abby's hair, she can't help but look for the same effect.

She also notices with the distaste of a doctor that her skin is no longer fair, her cheeks no longer containing their endearing rosiness. It's paled in comparison to a pallid complexion, reminding her of that sun-bleached cigarette billboard she sees every morning on her way to work. Sweat adorns her brow, some beads of the liquid absorbed by her hairline and slight female sideburns. Some of the drops even run down the side of her right temple, a few falling into and irritating the red-rimmed eyes. The _eyes_! They're the most disturbing of all. That special, priceless sparkle that used to swim and grin in the pupils and irises is no more, destroyed and replaced by the harsh, black reality of depression. They no longer seem to look at anything in wonder, drink the miracle of life itself. They only look _through_ things, haunted and hollow.

Her clothing, a plain black t-shirt and tan capris, no longer cling to her body like a few weeks ago, but _hang _on her like a scarecrow. The cheekbones and jaw are too prominent, the neck too thin. It takes everything in Lizzie not to shake her head. She feels as though she could snap that delicate neck without hardly any effort at all. The collarbones seem to jut out from the collar of the shirt, and even appear to make an impression at the tops of the sleeves on the other ends. She can't find the outline of her belly...only the loose gathering of cloth just beneath the hips. Even her shoes seem a bit bigger around the ankles.

Lizzie puts on her best effort of a smile...the one she usually keeps reserved for hopeful families of a patient that she just might be able to keep afloat, while knowing at the same time they could fall through, and there'd be nothing she could do but make them comfortable. It never quite reaches her eyes, but somehow reflects itself in her voice; the voice has always been the easier part to fake. "Abby," She says with a jovial note, "I seem to have skipped something on my list. Could you run to the poultry section and pick up a four pack of chicken breasts for me?"

Abby doesn't make eye contact. She doesn't smile. She doesn't nod. She simply turns, hands shoved deeply in her pockets, and walks away.

As soon as she's out of earshot, Lizzie turns to Mrs. Peters, the concern brighter than sunlight in her eyes. "Mrs. Peters, have you noticed anything..._different _about Abby? Maybe phy-"

"Oh, dear, I was hoping you'd get around to it!" Mrs. Peters says, a wash of relief gushing from her words. "I can't get her to eat, and if she ever does, it's just a nibble."

"Well, has Archy noticed?" She asks hopefully. "Surely if Archy-"

"He's tried taking us out for dinner every other night. We've both tried to get her talk about her favorite foods...Nothing." She shakes her head. Sighs. "I've never seen him worried like this before. It's not just hurting her health...it's hurting _ours_, too, Liz."

Lizzie remains silent, looks down the isle for a particularly ill-looking blonde. "Mrs. Peters, I hate to barge in, but-"

Mrs. Peters tisks, swats the younger woman on the shoulder. "You never barge, dear! Your presence is always welcome in our home, even if _he_ won't say it is..._foolish_ man." She mumbles. Now Mrs. Peters looks around the corner, too, and smiles. "Why don't you come over tonight? I'll treat you to dinner." She sighs again when Abby comes back into view. "Perhaps _you_ can get her to eat something."

Lizzie reapplies her _everything-is-fine-for-now-but-could-fall-through _doctor's smile as Abby rounds the corner, patting her on the shoulder as she places the pack of chicken breast in her basket. "Thank you, darling. You just saved me a second trip."

The right corner of her mouth twitches up for a few seconds, before dropping down to a neutral, thinly pressed line. The hands once again find their home in her pockets, and the gaze once again falls to the floor.

Mrs. Peters passes a pained expression over the teen's head. "Shall we say, six o'clock?"

Lizzie nods, responding with an expression of the same nature. "Certainly."

* * *

She's beginning to wonder about her mental health. A graveyard is a good place to sit and ponder. It's quiet. Not many people enter them. Some are even downright afraid of them. Superstitious. Some flat-out silly about it. You can't possibly be disturbed while sitting in one.

...Can you?

She wonders if being surrounded by the dead is doing her as much good as she thinks. The place is calm, after all. He can't kiss her cheeks anymore...at least, not like he used to could. Out here, she can feel his kisses in the sunshine, feel the warmth that his corpse now lacks. She can feel his strong arms through the gentle breeze, embracing her weak, emotionally drained body. His fingers playfully tickle her bare feet through the grass that's springing up on top and around him. Out here, in this little patch dedicated to the dearly departed...he's _everywhere. _Sometimes, she can even _swear_ he's whispering to her through the weeds when that embracing breeze sweeps across them.

She shakes her head. How _can't _this be helping her? She lays down atop the flattened dirt patch, now dry due to the good graces of the sunlight. Her jacket rests just at the base of Richie's tombstone, folded over just enough times for her head to be comfortable against the salt and pepper granite, ankles crossed and propped on the footstone. She locks her fingers atop her belly, stares up the sky. A gentle breeze stirs the weeds around her, plays with her hair, before shoving it down over her eyes. She brushes it away with a smile, listening contently to the voice in the weeds.

_2 years ago_

"_About time you got home." _

_Despite the two bottles of nail polish, ancient library books, and mobile phone, she allows her knapsack to fall unceremoniously to the floor. It's been a long day. Long day as in, it's like all the teachers got together and said, "Right then. Let's give all our classes a test today. Never mind that it's friday." She rolls her shoulders with a groan, allows her uniform jacket to join the knapsack. "I'm doing fine, thanks. My day was a bit long, but at least it's the weekend, right, dad?" _

_She steps to the small room to the right, leaving her things in the center of the living room. Soon, her skirt and school shoes join the other objects, replaced with a loose pair of track pants and a t-shirt. She isn't surprised to see him lying in the grass behind the flat. Not much of what he does ever surprises her. She stands beside him in her bare feet, allows her shadow to spread across his face. "Enjoying yourself?"_

_He cracks open his right eye, just long enough to take in her attire. "You're blocking my sun."_

"_Again, glad to see you, too. You could ask me why my day was long, or why I'm so tired." _

_He folds his hands behind his head and crosses his ankles, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "I could. Or, I could just tell you to shut up and join me."_

_Abby takes a long look at the grass before seating herself, pleased that there are no stickers, or ant piles, before laying back all the way. _

_He allows a few moments of silence to pass between them, before looking up at the sky. "You see that cloud?"_

_She draws in a long breath. "You'll have to be a bit more specific. Aren't we a little old for this game, anyway?"_

"_Would you just look?"_

_The long breath is released in an impatient sigh. "What one?"_

_He points up, and slightly to the left, casting the shadow of his arm over her belly. "That one. What's it look like?"_

"_A cloud." She responds dryly. _

_Now Richie sighs. "If you're not going to participate, the whole class will have to go inside."_

"_What class? You call __two people__ a class?" _

"_Any number of people willing to learn is a class." _

"_If this is one of your life lessons-"_

"_Do you want extra chores?"_

"_It looks like a person."_

"_Any specific type of person?"_

_She groans. "I don't know...A woman." _

_He smiles. "Good guess. It reminds me of your mother." _

"_It looks nothing like mum! The hair is all wrong-"_

"_That's not the point. It's a cloud shaped like a woman. Your mum would lay out and look at the clouds with me." He looks over at her. "Your mum never thought there was an age limit." _

_Now she looks at him. "So...the lesson is..."_

"_Do you have to turn everything I say into a lesson?"_

"_What? This wasn't to make an example out of something?"_

"_I was just trying to have a bit of fun." He leans over to poke her in the side, effectively tickling her. "Don't be afraid to have a bit of fun every now and then, alright? Even if it seems childish."_

"_That's the lesson?"_

"_...I've noticed that you haven't been very happy lately. Just...have some fun. Have some __childish__ fun-"_

"Have some childish fun." She chuckles to the wind. "That's even better."

"_That's__ even better!"_

"But-" She looks to the right, only to be surprised by an empty, grassy space. Her eyes roam wildly, she sits up to see if he's gone inside the flat, only...this isn't the lot behind it. She isn't even wearing track pants and a t-shirt, she's back in her uniform. The most shocking revelation, is that she's _certain _she had heard him. She could've sworn she had just had a conversation with him, even felt him tickle her.

She bolts upright and stares at the wrought iron fence to her left, and to her right, her heart sinking at the realization...tombstones. She turns around just to assure herself, nearly weeping with the horrible truth that she is, in fact, leaning against a tombstone that says,

_Richard Crackit_

_Adoring Husband_

_Loving Father_

_16 April 1968 - 18 March 2011 _

A large, black shadow is coming at her when she turns back around...a shadow that seems to consume anything and everything in its path. It seems to have no end. It covers the buildings for miles out, eats up the sidewalks, the roads, until it's right within the graveyard. It passes up the tombstones without slowing, right up to the bottoms of her tennis shoes, until she herself is deep within its belly. Looking up at the sky, she realizes a large cloud cover had been forming during her hallucination, traveling along with all the time in the world, unnoticed, until it decided to consume the sun, blocking out all of the warmth...blocking out all of _Richie. _

It's all she can do to hold back the tears as she climbs to her feet, using the headstone for support. Everything feels heavy. It's as though someone has strapped concrete blocks to her feet, forcing her to drag them through the patches of dirt and grass, leaving scrape marks on the sidewalk when she finally reaches it. There's an odd adhesive on the backs and palms of her hands, something strong enough to hold a pair of bricks on each. They swing and sway at her sides, forcing her shoulders forward. Her stomach has rocks in it. Small, individual pieces of gravel and pebbles, and they all roll and shift every time she drags a foot, scraping the lining, trickling slowly into her intestines. They make her want to double over and vomit right there in the street, but she has nothing in her belly. No food, no liquids, just stomach acid.

Her head is the heaviest. The last vain attempt to keep it up is to keep her chin from resting on her chest as she drags herself forward. Her brain hurts in places she didn't know _could _hurt. Someone's driven nails in it. Someone else is pounding it with a hammer, pounding hard enough to make her give up on all legible thought. Someone has written graffiti across her eyes with thick black and white paint. Some of it mingles together over her pupils, forming spotty shades of gray, depending on where she looks.

What scares her the most...is her chest.

The breastbone is built directly over the heart. It serves as an anchor to keep the collarbones aligned directly beneath the esophagus, to help keep the shoulders pulled back. It allows for the ribs to have something to grip on the front, so they're not precariously just clinging to the ever so fragile spinal disks in the back...though one could argue that cartilage is _hardly _a strong adhesive. After all, it's what gives the nose shape, and noses can be broken easily. However weak or strong, the ribs do circle around and house the lungs, forming a virtual prison.

The lungs, however light, however flimsy, adjust and curve in their environment to allow room for...the heart. Though the left lung mostly has the hassle of staying out of the way of the body of the heart, even the one on the right has to make room for the superior vena cava and right atrium is divinely placed and adjusted to stay out of the way of the muscle that has the equal importance of the brain, and yet...she can't feel it. Everything in her body feels sluggish and heavy, but the only things she can feel moving in her chest are the lungs, filling like balloons, then deflating like beach balls to be stored for the winter. She can feel her frontal ribs being pushed upward and out, allowing the cartilage to flex just enough for the lungs to go as far as needed, before retracting down into starting position once again.

But, the heart...

She'd reach to her neck to grope for a pulse...if her hands weren't so heavy. She'd stop and _listen _for the tell-tale sign of pumping, but everything around her is so _loud. _Buses barrel past her on the street like angry elephants, little black London taxies pierce the air with their shrill horns. Babies, God bless them, cry after being woken from their blissful sleep. Dogs bark in passing on the other side of the street. They all seem to move so...so..._fast. _Everyone appears to be in such a hurry. They all move past her like a blur, and she feels like she's moving in slow motion. She feels like a snail, slithering at her own pace of altered time, and they're all race cars. Even the split second of her eyelids moving feels like closing them for a good minute. She's got to get out of here. She's got to get off the sidewalks, away from the streets. She's got to know that there isn't just some dark, vacant cave where her heart should be. She's got to see if there's even _blood _moving through her body. She...Needs...

A blade.

* * *

This can't be happening.

Where she expected the air to be silent, she finds it pregnant with laughter. Dishes clank against one another. Silverware clashes together like angry swords in the midst of a battle. Somewhere near, a _television_ is going. She wants to bang her head against the wall until the world goes black. Of all the things Archy's flat is, it's _not _social. It's like a library. The sacred rules are to not disturb the silence, or the master at work (unless you're Mrs. Peters), and this is hardly a place of concentration. The master is the operator of the offending high definition television. He's only watching the news, of course, but in all the months she's lived here, she's never once seen it _turned_ _on_. Just like in the memory, she allows her knapsack to fall to the floor with a dead thud. _Dead_. Just how she feels.

Archy turns his head with a start, glances at his watch before standing. "Abby-"

Mrs. Peters (followed by Lizzie), comes out of the kitchen the moment the word leaves his lips, reminding Abby of the first note of a piece of music after just the right beat from the metronome. "You're late, dear! Dinner's going to be ready soon. Where _have_ you _been_?" Her tone is like that of a rattle snake: the rattler is fun to listen to while the snake is behind glass, but out in the wild, one venomous bite has the potential to kill.

All of the oxygen in the room seems to vanish. She wouldn't say the atmosphere is hostile, but it is most definitely tense. It reminds her of the particular occasion in which her ten year old self had strictly been told to stay away from the dirty dishes while dad was washing them. Wanting nothing more than to help, she grabbed one, and, not expecting the rim of the plate to be so greasy, sent it crashing to the floor in hundreds of pieces...and much like Humpty Dumpty, it couldn't be put back together...ever again. She'd started out on a quest just to help, just to lend a courteous hand...Yet the gesture ended badly. Richie had just stared at her, disappointed and irritated...much like Mrs. Peters.

"Abby," Lizzie starts, breaking the memory, "Are you alright? You look a bit pale."

She stares at her for a moment, taking in the concern in the elegantly arched brows, the slightly parted lips as the doctor surveys the infected. She doesn't even have to _look_ at Mrs. Peters to know what's going through her mind, the mother hen that clucks crossly at the last chick to enter the nest. She can never read what Archy's thinking. He just stands there, hands in pockets, neutral eyes waiting for a response to the doctor's question. She releases a shaky breath, realizing she'd been holding it all the while, and hangs her jacket on the coatrack. "I just went to see Dad, is all." She side-glances at Chicken Little, assuming a posture non too different from Archy's. "Is...that alright?" Her voice is timid, the last line of defense; perhaps if she lays defenseless before the bear, it'll lose interest, stop attacking.

Mrs. Peters sighs, soothed over for now. "It's fine, dear." She says gently. "Just, call next time you're going to be late, hm? Now, come along, everyone. Help me set dinner out on the table."

Archy and Abby carry a few dishes, along with Lizzie, but it's mostly Mrs. Peters, with her proverbial bee-line, that sets everything out. Archy assumes his usual seat at the head of the table, directly across from Lizzie. Abby sits at his left hand, and after rushing a few finishing touches, Mrs. Peters sits to his right.

Enticing a meal as it is (for Mrs. Peters always prepares meals fit for a _king_, no matter the company), Abby feels none of its appeal. The potatoes are diced, cooked to fall apart in the mouth, but to remain firm enough as to not fall off the fork on the way there, absolutely dripping with butter, sprinkled with pepper. The steak is basking in its own delectable juices, the dinner rolls are crisp and flaky (but positively fluffy on the inside), and the wine is fine and sweet. The smells alone, however, make her want to gag. She forces a straight face only for the sake of Mrs. Peters, trying to think of happier times to help it along.

She knows she won't be comfortable while she sits here, surrounded by the small, cautious conversations swimming mockingly inside her ears. Her face feels hot, practically burning as every light source in the house seems to be shining in her direction. There's a force pressing in on her eardrums and cerebrum, a pair of hands, clasping harder and harder, until they feel like they're going to detonate, send oozing bits of brain careening down the sides of her neck. Her silverware is eased on either side of the plate, allowing her to cradle the sides of her cranium with shaking hands.

She feels sick to her stomach...and the _pressure. _She can feel the steam building up, buzzing beneath the surface of her skin like a water heater about to explode. She bites back the nausea, swallows down the provocative bile wanting so desperately to surface over the tongue and between her teeth. She excuses herself quietly and speeds away from the table, one hand grasping her stomach, the other clamped over her mouth in a theatric display. It's the only way Mrs. Peters will allow her to leave the table _this _night, almost a week since she last ate properly.

Archy watches her retreating form with a sinking stomach, leans back against his chair with a sigh.

Mrs. Peters wipes at her mouth with a bit more force than is necessary, tosses her napkin on the table in defeat. "Do you see what I mean? Not even _one _bite this time."

Lizzie nods, filing away all the information for later diagnosis. "She's depressed, Mrs. Peters. Have you thought of sending her to a clinic? They could get her on an IV; She'll get all the nutrients and therapy she needs."

Mrs. Peters looks anxiously at Archy, brows raising.

He sighs again, also discarding his napkin on the table.

"I know you don't like the idea, Archy, but we've discussed this." Mrs. Peters presses. "If a clinic can sort out people like _Johnny Quid_-"

"Abby's nothing like Johnny." He cuts in, shakes his head. "She's not a junkie, not an alcoholic-"

"How can you know for certain?" Lizzie asks gently. "She's depressed, she could be-"

"She's not." He says firmly. His brows raise slightly, eyes opening wider as he studies the two women. His voice drops drastically, almost a murmur. "She's not. I would know if she were doing drugs; Lenny hires crack-heads to do the dirty work on the streets. She doesn't have the tell-tale signs-"

Mrs. Peters places a weary hand on top of his, curls her fingers into his palm to silence him. "She's _starving _herself, Arch. Surely that's just as bad?"

Lizzie draws her brows together as she listens to the exchange. "How often does she stay in her room?"

Mrs. Peters pauses, removes her hand from Archy's. "She's in there all the time. She doesn't come out for breakfast in the mornings, so I suspect she's just sulking around in there before school. Then, she's right back in there, just as soon as she gets back."

Lizzie fingers the stem of her wine glass, lips pressed in a thin line. "Do you know what time school lets out? Is she coming home directly after? Or many hours after the time?"

Mrs. Peters shakes her head. "Never. It's always _many _hours after the bell rings. She always stops off at that..." Her nose wrinkles in disgust, the words practically rolling off her tongue like venom. "That _graveyard_. She stays there for _hours_ on end. It can't _possibly_ be helping her."

Lizzie nods, stares at her plate. She reaches up a tired hand to massage her forehead, trying without ease to remember that one psychology class she took at university...all those years ago. What were those different stages of depression? "How does she look when she _does _come out of her room? Aside from on the way to class, or to run errands. Does she appear more relaxed? Is she happier? No difference at all?" She directs her attention to Archy, getting to her feet now as she begins to think faster. "Does she speak to you?"

He shakes his head, opens his arms a little. "Me? I haven't seen any difference." A deep sigh flows gently out of his nose. "And no, she doesn't speak to me anymore."

"Why do you suppose that is, then?"

He snorts. "Well, I don't know. Maybe I remind her too much of-"

A string of curses floats from down the hall to where the three adults are sitting. Lizzie shares a look with Mrs. Peters, before both turn to Archy. They all stand and run when a louder, toe scrunching scream pierces the air.

* * *

She knows that it's wrong. In therapy, they don't fail to mention it to you...five, ten times.

"_There are other ways to deal with your emotions." _They say. "_You can take out your frustrations on a sport, say...boxing, or football. Work yourself physically, so you can wear yourself out mentally. Your body is a work of art. What is self-mutilation going to help?"_

Abby stares at herself in the mirror, concentrating on the voice of her past therapist. Her tone was soothing, words carefully chosen, pronounced slowly and deliberately as she smoothed out the decidedly rough parts of the words. She takes a deep breath, watching the memory play out on the smooth surface of the glass.

"_But, what if cutting helps me?"_

_The therapist had simply tilted her head, crossing her legs as she readjusted her writing pad. "How so?"_

"_It's like I've been bitten by a venomous snake, or spider."_

She squeezes her eyes shut as she whispers with the memory, though it does nothing to keep the tears from falling over the edges. The straight-razor rests only a few feet away on the lavatory, barely within reach of her shaking fingers.

"_Thinking about my mum is like releasing the poison into my body. It goes straight to my heart, where it's pumped out into my entire body through the bloodstream. The poison attacks my muscles, makes them swell up to the point that they feel like they're going to explode. The bloating of these muscles makes my internal organs feel like they're being squeezed. The worst part is when my chest feels like it's swollen. The force is pressing in on my ribcage, which, ultimately, is restricting my lungs." _

_She had paused there to look at the psychologist, her breaths heavy and uneven, tears threatening to spill over. "Have you ever heard of, "I Was Bitten"? It's an American television program. It's about these people that get bitten by venomous snakes, spiders, stung by Africanized bees, shark attacks, bear attacks, and how the person survived." She stopped to swallow, but her tongue was dry. The glass of water that sat next to her had never stood a chance. "Well, there was this one man...I think he got bitten by a rattlesnake. His throat swelled up so badly, that they had to shove an air tube down his trachea , and his muscles were so swollen..." She closed her eyes, pictured the footage, "The muscles in his arm were so swollen, that they had to cut it open, or else it would have...__popped__, basically."_

_The therapist wrinkled her nose in disgust, but Abby didn't notice. She'd been on a roll, finally able to describe just what her pain felt like...in a way she'd never been able to tell her father. "Well...that's basically how I feel." She'd said, her voice softened, almost a whisper. "If I don't cut myself, if I don't allow my muscles to expand...I'm going to suffocate." _

_The therapist had just stared at her, amazed by this...this __child's__ use of words. Even some of the adults she'd had __to work with weren't this grammatically gifted. She didn't really know what to say, how to respond. She'd just sat, legs crossed, note pad limply hanging in her fingers. "W-well," She'd stuttered, "What if Leonardo Da Vinci got frustrated at his work? What if he took a knife to it every time he was-"_

Abby shakes her head, splashes some cool water on her face from the faucet. She'd never felt so hopeless than she did in that therapist's office; she'd poured her heart out, and the woman couldn't even figure out what to _say _in response. Needless to say, she'd never seen that particular psychologist ever again...they just gave up and sent her to a mental hospital, left her in there with regular visits until she got better.

Her stomach turns at the thought as a few more tears leak out. Would they do that to her again? Would Archy even _bother_ to visit her, too disappointed to have to go to a place like that? Mrs. Peters would, she knows that for certain. Kind, old Widow Peters, with her gentle, yet firm disposition. Maybe even Lizzie would come to see her. But Archy? Her hand slides a few more inches across the lavatory, putting the straight-razor just slightly closer...

"I hate you." She whispers to the object. "I hate you so much."

_But, I comfort you. _It coos. _Remember? I help you relax. _

"You make the venom go away." She takes a step over, putting it well within reach.

"_I'm so disappointed in you." _

She whirls on the spot, wide eyes darting around the room like an angry bee trying to find a way back outside. That _voice_. That was _Richie's _voice. She throws open the closet door, rips the shower curtain off its rungs, revealing a dripping shower head. She's all alone. But...that _voice_! It had been so _loud_, so _clear_, as though he'd been standing right next to her, speaking directly into her feels like she's breathing through a straw, breaths shortened to desperate gasps as she struggles for air. Her heart has relocated itself. She lays a trembling hand on her throat, discovering its new home in her airway. She's got to get it out of there, got to rip it out and put it back where it belongs.

_Come here, darling. _The blade whispers. _I'll make breathing bearable. _

She looks up at it, on her knees now. Only one arm is supporting her weight, pressing painfully down on the counter to keep her from falling. "You're going to kill me!" She screams.

_No! No! Never kill! _It assures_. Only make everything better._

A choked sob forces its way past her heart, ricochets off the walls of the tiny room, only to shoot their own master in the ears. She screams at the pain, grabbing the razor as she falls to the floor. "You can't help! You never help!" She opens the blade anyway, catching her eyes in its reflection. She's frightened by how she doesn't even look like the same person, rather like a fugitive broken free from his cell, running wildly from the dogs and gunshots not too far behind. "I'm going crazy." She whimpers. "You can't help my mentality."

_Yes. Yes I can, sweetheart. I can heal your pain, if only for a little while._ It murmurs. _Come here, embrace me. Let me show you it's going to be okay. _

She allows herself to cave in to its seduction. The steam is slowly blowing away, the skin opening just enough to allow her muscles to breathe. She gasps blissfully, allowing the coolness of the steel to soothe the consuming fire beneath. The venom that was paralyzing her body runs freely down her forearm, staining the white cloth of her rolled-up sleeve, but she doesn't care. It's all going away, relinquishing its strangle-hold. Her air passage opens up, gives her heart enough room to slip freely from its cramped home, easily traveling safely back between ribs three and four, slithering quietly over her left lung, situating itself easily back between the two airbags. She tries to laugh, relieved with her new-found freedom of oxygen, but it comes out in a sob. She isn't surprised. How many times has she tried to laugh, only for it to turn into more depression?

She lays her head back against the cabinet beneath the sink, nose turned up at the ceiling as she lays her bloodied hand on the floor, finally able to loosen her grip on the razor. "This doesn't change anything." She cries tearfully. "I _still _hate you, you bastard!"

The door flings against the wall with a deafening crack, showering her with splinters. Someone else is shouting, too, screaming explicit words at her. Archy yanks her up by the back of the shirt, slaps the razor out of her hand, cutting the back of his in the process.

"Ow! You're hurting me!" She yells at him.

He holds her wrist with an iron grasp under the faucet, pins her elbow to the side of the sink to keep her from jerking away. "You've hurt yourself more than I'm hurting you!" He yells, not even half a foot from her face. "_What_ the _hell _is wrong with you?"

"I couldn't breathe!" She shouts back. The sadness leaks down into the drain, disappearing with the blood, only to be replaced by the anger of the crimson.

"So you cut yourself? That doesn't make any damned sense!" He reaches for the soap, now, scrubbing the cuts with his rough palm.

"You don't understand!"

"Apparently I don't!" He scoffs. "What the f-"

"Archy." Lizzie lays a calm hand on his back, a first aid kit near the sink. "Calm down." She looks quietly over his shoulder, surveying the damage.

Abby looks at the woman, curiously, oblivious to whatever Archy says after the attempt to soothe him. Her face is composed into a mask of such...such _serenity_. There's something so natural about it, yet _supernatural _at the same time. Her nostrils don't flare like Archy's. Her eyes aren't blazing. She simply observes Archy's work, silently. It's at that moment that she realizes...She isn't Lizzie, the friend, anymore. She's an emergency surgeon. She's _Doctor _ Elizabeth Sheffield. She catches the younger woman staring at her, sighs gently through her nose.

She looks back down at her arm, unable to bear the full-fledged disappointment. When she does, her eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. Seven cuts adorn her forearm, each a different depth or angle. Hadn't she only cut herself twice? Three times, tops? She looks up into the mirror, catching a glimpse of where the razor hit the wall. Blood. Blood spattered on the blue and white wallpaper. Blood spilled all over the floor. Bloody shoe prints where Archy had trekked right through it. Blood still going down the drain. No wonder they're all freaked out...it looks like a crime scene.

She lowers her head, hope above hope that Archy won't move his shoulder out from under it in disgust. She realizes now, she didn't just hurt herself. She hurt _everyone else_ in the process. She looks at Archy, brooding but silently cleaning her wounds. Lizzie tries to scrub some of the blood off the wall. For the first time, she notices that there's no trace of Mrs. Peters, not anywhere near. She looks at Archy in the mirror, who looks back down at the lacerates. "Wh-...Where's Mrs. Peters?" She whispers.

He refuses to look at her, answering stiffly, "Laying down in her room. She almost _fainted_ when she saw that you'd _mutilated_ yourself."

Most definitely. She'd let _everyone_ down. Her head lowers back to Archy's shoulder, where she allows herself to cry openly. She hasn't felt this rotten in a long time. Come to think of it, she didn't even feel this _tiny _and _useless_ at Richie's _funeral._ The quiet hiccups crescendo back into body jerking, breathy sobs.

Archy shifts his weight uncomfortably, glances at Lizzie in the mirror.

She simply pushes off from the wall, glances over his shoulder with a satisfied nod. "Good, Archy. You've cleaned them well enough. I'll go get the hydrogen peroxide from the fridge."

Watching her leave, he respires an exasperated sigh, turns his attention to the sink. "Right then." He mumbles awkwardly, deciding it's time to turn off the faucet. He seats the crying teen on the edge of the bathtub, himself on the toilet lid, after fetching a hand-towel. Keeping his head down, he allows her to rest her arm in his lap, where he keeps firm pressure on it. It's only now that he notices _he's _bleeding, as well. It must have happened when he'd swatted the razor away, but it doesn't bother him...He's had worse.

_Much_ worse.

He shoves the torn shower-curtain aside when Lizzie returns, deciding the tub will be best for the peroxide cleaning. Holding her firmly by the wrist, he positions her arm just over the edge, and without warning, without giving her the benefit of at least using a rag, tilts the bottle, dumping the clear liquid along the length of her pale forearm. It bubbles and hisses, mixing with what little bits of blood are left. The chemical reaction earns a wince out of the recipient, even makes her so bold as to reach out and grasp the excess of Archy's sleeve with her uninjured hand. He acts like he doesn't notice, choosing instead to go about laying down the gauze, while Lizzie moves a roll of medical tape around said arm in a spiraling motion.

He moves to the sink without looking at either of them, a frown pulling prominently at the corners of his lips. The crusty, old blood breaks free of his hand like it had just been sitting on the surface for decoration. "Go sit in the living room." He says quietly, reaches for the peroxide bottle. The medicine makes contact with the exposed under layers of skin and tissue, licking at them like a diseased dog at his wounds; his eye brows don't even so much as twitch when it gives off its signature hiss.

The living room is Abby's favorite in the flat. The large, wide windows allow enough light in during the day that electricity isn't needed. The couch cushions are almost as comfortable as her mattress, and the white paint and openness of the room give her a sense of sanctuary and fresh air, unlike the small, dark, closed-in room back at her old flat. But tonight, with the outside light seeming to dissipate more rapidly by the minute, the blinds drawn and closed, it feels like a cave...if not smaller.

Archy and Lizzie walk into the living room side by side, expressions somber as they quietly exchange words to one another. They pause by the front door, every now and then sending a glance or two in the general direction of the girl. Five minutes go by before eventually, Archy reaches for the door knob, nodding gently as Lizzie sticks a foot outside. Abby watches curiously as she squeezes his upper arm, passing on a few more sentences, before making her exit.

For a moment, he doesn't look at her when he sits opposite of her on the coffee table. He holds his left hand gently in his right, thumb stroking the bandage.

She watches him, mouth opening and closing most of the time before she can get the words out. "Well?" She asks timidly.

He looks at her from under his eyebrows, raising them shortly after. "What?" His voice is surprisingly gruff, not hostile, as Abby was expecting.

She swallows tightly, looks down at her faded blue, blood-stained sneakers. "Aren't you going to ask why I did it?"

He sighs, a heavily deep-drawn breath through his nose, and swallows too. "Ask no questions, you hear no lies." He clears his throat. "But, it was on my mind."

The room is dead silent, save for the wall clock that ticks loudly. Abby envies it; apparently, even it's braver than she to allow its voice to be heard. She glances up at it, watching with the last tiny sliver of hope as the sun finally sets down behind the skyscrapers.

"You got somewhere to go?" Archy asks, not seeming to care about the balance of silence he's just broken. He crosses his right leg over the left, entwines his fingers over the knee. "Do you think he'd be happy with you, Abby?"

Tiny pinpricks behind her eyes begin to sting. She wraps her arms around herself, holds her legs tighter against each other. "No." She whispers shakily.

He holds his arms open, a gesture once thought to be warm, now seeming to mock her. "Well? You seem to want to tell me why you did it."

She squeezes her eyes shut, fighting the burning tears. One rebelliously trickles out and onto her left cheek, drawing a sharp breath out of her. "I miss him...It suffocates me to think about him."

He nods, brows raising again. "Tell me how _cutting _yourself helps that...I'm not sure I understand that part."

She takes a deep breath, wills herself to continue. "Like I said: I feel like I'm being suffocated. A tea kettle boils water until steam is shooting out of the spout. That's exactly what I feel. I have to cut myself, in order for the steam to have an outlet." She can't stand the intensity of his gaze anymore, piercing her like individual knives. Again, she drops her head, only this time into her waiting palms.

Archy places his hands on either side of his hips, looking off to the side as he sighs again. "Lizzie and I had a talk," He states, his voice a little softer. The new tone draws Abby out of her hands, and he looks full-on at her as he speaks. "We both agreed that...it might be best if you went away for a little while, took a bit of thera-"

"No." She whispers firmly. She shakes her head, wondering where the boldness is coming from. "No, I'm not going to therapy again...I refuse."

"Abby," He leans forward, voice dropping again. "It'll help you. They can teach you ways to deal with your grief without-" He looks at her bandaged arm uneasily, swallowing a little easier now as he recites his practiced lines, "Without hurting yourself. You'll have people to talk to that have been through the same thi-"

Somewhere, she finds the energy deep within to shove herself angrily off the couch. "No!" She shouts, and even she's surprised at her bravado when her voice echoes off the walls. "I'm not going!"

He stands, too, knocking the coffee table back. "Yes you are!" He yells. "Don't mistake yourself in thinking you're the only one that misses him! It's a shame. It's a damned shame! But," He gestures aggressively at her arm, "This isn't anyway to deal with it! He's dead, Abby! Got it? _Dead. _You go to that dirty stinkin' graveyard every night like you're _visiting _with someone that responds _back_! You stay out late, you don't tell us when you're coming home." He flails his arms in the air, exasperated. "I'm _worried _about you!" Now he grabs her tightly by the shoulders, shakes them firmly. "Do you understand that? You're not some orphan out on your own! You have family to come back to, however small it is!"

Abby tries to rip away from his grasp, only to have him irritatingly grab her by the excess of her right sleeve. She beats at his chest in a blind rage with her fists, able to see nothing but the color red. Enraged about getting caught. Enraged about being told what she's going to do. Enraged about someone speaking about her dad in such a manner. "You're not my family!" She screams. "Family members don't keep secrets from one another, and they don't speak about the dead like some _pet_! I hate you! I hate you!" She ignores the pain in her left arm, disregards the fact that the bandages are being stained with scarlet. "Do you understand _that_? _I_. _Hate. You_!"

Archy stands quietly, taking his beating like he did only a year ago. Takes it for as long as he can bear it, anyway. In a swift move, he grabs her wrists, restrains them just enough to keep them from coming near his chest. Then, without question of what to do next, pulls her against him, wraps his arms tightly around her. She strikes at his back, her incoherent words muffled by his chest. Even after she stops struggling, he continues to hold her, afraid to let go. His right hand comes up to cradle the back of her head, strokes the wheat-colored threads as the other rubs soothing circles along the length of her back.

"Shhh, shhh. Abs, listen. Listen to me. It's for the best. I'm doing this because I love you." He murmurs, bending his head over hers.

She grips handfuls of his coat, squeezes him tight enough that it squishes her nose. "How can you claim to love me," She mumbles, "If you're willing to send me away?"

He opens his mouth, pulls in a shaky breath. "It's a serious matter, Abby. Things like this...they shouldn't be skirted."

"Yeah." She whispers. "It is for the best. But," She lifts her head from his chest, allows him to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm not going without a fight. I'm awfully sorry about this-" She swings hard against his stomach with her fist, makes a run for the door when he doubles over.

He hobbles right behind her, hand clamped over his belly. He makes it to the bottom of the stairs before stopping, trying to regain his breath. "Abby!" He calls. It's too late. He catches a flurry of her figure behind the closing elevator doors.

Mrs. Peters is waiting for him in the living room when he gets back, worry-lines prominent on her brow, eyes shining with concern. "What's happened? What was all that yelling?" She takes a moment to look at him, particularly noting his bent posture. "Archy?"

He eases himself down on the couch with a grunt, crossing his ankles on the crooked coffee table as he closes his eyes. "We had a disagreement," He winces, places his hands on his stomach. "About rehabilitation." His brows quirk. "She doesn't want to go."

"Disagreement, indeed." She mutters. "Getting bashed in the gut isn't having a disagreement...It's having a fight."

"Well, I could hardly hit her back, could I?" He snaps. "Give it an hour. If she isn't back by then, I'll go looking for her."

"Fine, fine. I'll put on a kettle. Call Turbo, would you? I want him here with the car as soon as possible."

He nods. "Right. Will do." He raises his brows, watches her retreating form. "Oh, and Mrs. Peters? I'll have a beer."

* * *

She wonders about the intelligence of her decision as she drags herself down the sidewalk, sleeves rolled down to her thumbs. Crying doesn't seem to phase him. _Hitting_ him didn't phase him. What good is running away going to do?_ Not running away, _she reminds herself, _Just taking a walk. _"But, how _long_ of a walk? How _far_?" She responds to herself. She catches the whiff of a cigarette in passing, stops to stare in longing. After a moment, she follows them at a brisk pace. "Uhm, 'scuse me, sir?"

The man turns. He's hardly any older than she is, mussed up hair, hasn't shaved in a few days. "Speakin' to me?"

She bows her head a little, rubs the back of her neck. "Yeah. Uhm...Could you spare me a cigarette?"

The stranger's brows arch. He takes the cancer stick out of his mouth, studies her with disturbing interest. "Forget the cig, sweetheart. You look like you need a _drink_." He looks over his shoulder, yanks a thumb in the same direction. "I'm on me way to the pub. Care to join me?"

She gives him a half-hearted chuckle. "No, but thanks very much. Just had an argument with my uncle, is all. I'm going to go back to him after a cigarette, if that's alright with you."

The young man's shoulders slouch a little, but he nods. "Alright, sweetheart. But, you're missing out on a good time." He winks. "I could bring you a smile, or two."

She winks back, taking the offered smoke. "You already have, mister." With a neat little smirk, she leans in close, close enough to make him uncomfortable, and lights her cigarette on his.

He grins, leaning back in amusement. "Are you _sure_ you don't want to come with me to the pub?"

She laughs, slowly leaning next to his face to grab another cig. "No, but I appreciate the offer." Turning, she sends him one last flirty smile, before walking off.

She'd quit smoking a year ago, vowing she'd never touch another cancer stick. But after tonight...What more is _one _more broken promise going to hurt? Promise to Richie to never cut herself again. Promise to stay off of cigarettes. Promise to herself to treat Archy with the _utmost _respect for taking her in. _Cancer stick, _she muses. That's why she'd quit. Too many family members, friends of the family were dying off from lung disease, or other such causes of smoking. It's not like the box doesn't come with a warning label. But, _oh_, how it feels good.

She takes in a nice, deep breath, feels the smoke travel down her windpipe, spread out into her lungs, before blowing out the excess. A moment later, the nicotine kicks in, causing her steps to become unsteady, her body wanting to go _this _way, while she wants to go _that_ way. She laughs, carelessly, openly to the empty streets, tucking the other cig behind her left ear. She can't say she wasn't expecting any side-effects after not touching one in a _year_.

One cigarette smoked down to the filter, she uses it to light the other, deciding to walk just a little bit longer. She goes across a bridge without noticing, around a pond without hearing the ducks quack. Soon, it's been half an hour, and still, she walks. She's surprised at how few the people have been in all this time, how shady they look when someone does pass her. She begins to go across the bridge again, nerves and smarts nagging at her.

"You speak to me like _that _again, and I'll kill you without thinking twice!"

_What did he say? _She stops, tip-toes back to the beginning of the bridge.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Cole! I didn't mean-"

_Cole? Lenny Cole? Isn't that who Archy works f-_

"You almost exposed me, you understand that? You should _know_ not to deal with unfamiliar customers!"

"Honestly, Mr. Cole! I didn't know! You don't just have us deal to street scum, we deal to gentlemen, too! _Crooked_ cops, for Pete's sake!"

She gets down on her hands and knees, scoots just to the edge of the steps. _It __is__ Mr. Cole! But what's he doing?"_

"You _never _sell to a gentleman we haven't done a background check on! How _stupid _are you, you f-"

_I __knew__ that man didn't work in real-estate! _She shakes her head, inches down a couple more stairs.

"Immigrant? Danny, shoot 'im before I have a heart attack! This stupid bastard is of no more use! Go on, then, shoot him!" Lenny barks.

A man, _Danny_, apparently, steps out of the four-man crowd of thugs, silenced-pistol in hand. He aims it at the offender without blinking.

"No! No! I won't do it ag-"

_Click. Click click...click._

The man is thrown back against the brick arch of the bridge, slumping down to his back-side in what's left of dried creak scum, bird waste, feathers and dead leaves.

Abby can't see the man's face, can't see his soul leaving his eyes, or his slack jaw swinging by the hinges, dangling just above his shoulder. She did, however, see a man fire a gun, and another one die after a violent jig, which is just as good. A shriek projects involuntarily over her tongue, past her teeth before she can clamp a hand over her mouth.

The accidental outburst draws the attention of the rough crowd (including a certain man dressed in all black, from his fedora, tie, even down to his socks and shoes). For a minute, they just stare at her, their pupils adjusting as though they've just remembered they were out in public, with the danger (fulfilled, now), of being caught. Abby stares, too, the lines and details of each individual face being burned into her memory...the faces of people that very well might just kill her.

Lenny's momentary shock is hidden behind his sunglasses (even worn at night, apparently). The girl's face won't go unremembered by his memory, either, having realized just _who _has caught him in the act. He pretends not to recognize her, for the benefit of the end of the situation, or for his image in front of the men on his payroll, he doesn't know. "What the f-"

_Oh, sh-_

"-Are you staring at?"

Panicked, she trips up the stairs a few times, scrapes her chin a few good ones, before making it back up to the bridge. She can hear Lenny shouting beneath her feet, hear him goading the men to chase after her, before he has them shot, too.

The men are on her in a heartbeat, a pack of hounds after a fox. By-standers pause to see what all the noise is about. She looks at them with frantic eyes, flails her arms wildly as she leaps just in time to avoid tripping over a branch. "Help me!" She calls to them. "_Help!_"

None oblige.

She notes a patch of trees, planted in neat rows, just a few yards before the sidewalk and a major street. Heart in her throat, she heads for the patch, runs a zig-zag pattern between them. Someone's fingers brush the base of her neck, begin to grab the excess of her shirt collar. Terrified, Abby brushes shoulders with one of the trees, successfully knocking the man's face into it. He falls to the ground with blood spattered across his broken nose, crooked for the rest of his life.

She chances a glance over her shoulder. Two more people pursue her. _Two? I thought there were- _Her legs connect with a park bench, breaking the two top-most boards of the back support. She flings her arms in front of her face, managing to make her elbows crack against the seat instead of her chin. She groans unashamedly in the middle of the sidewalk, rolls over onto her side to cradle her right arm against her.

"Ooh!"

"That's gotta _hurt_..."

"Is she alright?"

"She may need to go to the hospital! Someone check on her."

A ginger, perhaps in her fifties, kneels over her, molds a hand around the ball of her shoulder. "Are you alright, dear? You took quite a-"

"Those men!" She breathes. "I'm being chased! I-"

"Chased? Someone's chasing her?"

"Who's being chased? Do they have guns?"

"Who has a gun?"

A bobby and his partner make their way gently through the crowd. "What's this about a gun, I hear?" The first one, raven-haired, addresses the people.

The ginger looks up at them. "This girl says she was being chased-"

"By who?" The partner, a short black woman, asks.

Abby carefully eases herself to a sitting position, arm still cradled tightly against her. The two men are nowhere to be seen. "I-...I don't know who they were. I..." She pauses. "They were trying to rob me." Her stomach tightens. _Rob you? What are you lying to the police for?_

The black bobby eases herself to a squatting position, takes out a notepad. Her partner begins to question the crowd. "What did these men look like, dear? What were they trying to get from you?"

"Uhm..." She glances around again. "My mobile. They were watching me speak into it. When I put it away, they came around and asked for it. I couldn't really see their faces...All I know is that they were wearing black."

"And this happened just now?"

She nods. "Mhm."

"Are you alright? Do you need a lift to the hospital?"

"No, but-"

It's him. Just leaning there against the lamp post, watching the scene with amusement. Black fedora and tie, socks and shoes. His eyes remind her of Charlie's: brilliant blue, incredibly observant. He smiles at her, points his fingers at his eyes, then hers. Before Abby can warn the policewoman, he's gone.

"I think I did something to my leg. Could you help me get home?"

* * *

"You be safe, now. Hear me, Archy? I don't want to be getting any phone calls that _you're _in hospital, too, if she isn't already."

Archy checks the magazine of his pistol. He's taking the more favored of his collection: a silver magnum, given to him by Lenny as a reward for his first job done well. Nodding, he slips the magazine back into the chamber. "As always, Mrs. Peters. Call me if she comes back, alright?"

She nods, pats Turbo on the shoulder. "Take care of him, will you, Turbo?"

He smiles. "Yes, ma'm. Always, ma'm."

"Alright, Turbo. Loaded? Ready to-"

A buzzer sounds at the front door. Archy picks up the phone, brows knotted. "Hello?"

"Mister Crackit? Mister Archibald Crackit?"

He frowns. No one calls him Archibald anymore. Not unless they're officials. "Speaking."

"Mister Crackit, this is Officer Peak. We have a young lady down here that says she's your niece. A one...Abigail Crackit?"

He turns to look at Turbo, then Mrs. Peters, who breathes a sigh of relief. "Yes, that's her. Want me to come down, or-"

"No, no, that's fine. We'd like to have a word. Nothing serious, just a short chat."

He breathes a sigh out of his nose, nods. "That'll be fine, thanks...Come up."

The policewoman smiles at him when he opens the door, keeps a hand gently on Abby's shoulder. The raven-haired officer just nods...curtly. Abby's relieved to see that he doesn't look angry. More so, he looks relieved.

"I hope there wasn't any trouble." He says quietly, hiding the magnum behind him.

The woman smiles. "No, no. Your niece isn't the center of any mischief. Rather, she was the victim."

Abby avoids his gaze, looks at the woman when she removes her hand. "May I go, please?" She doesn't waste any time when she receives a nod, ducks beneath Archy's arm as he holds the door open. She doesn't listen to the details the police give him. She barely feels Mrs. Peters smother her with a hug only a mother can give. She almost doesn't register the nod sent her direction by Turbo. All she knows at this point is the pain in both arms, embarrassment at having to be brought home like a teenager caught toilet-papering on halloween night.

"You've scraped your chin! And your arm is bleeding." Mrs. Peters fusses.

"I'm fine." Abby says weakly. "I just...I just need to lay down."

"Well, at least let me-"

"Mrs. Peters." Her voice is soft. Firm, albeit, but not irritated. "It's noting I can't take care of. I'm going to my room, now. Thank you."

Her _bed_. Her bed has _never _felt this good. Tempur-pedic? Please. Now laying on her back, she can feel the stress of the day, the torturous, emotional events taking a toll on her body. There isn't a single part of her that doesn't hurt. She strips off her blood-stained shirt, groans as she replaces it with the black tank-top laying wadded at the end of the bed. She opens the blinds to allow the street light to shine in, effectively illuminating the room. The bandages on her left arm look absolutely disgusting. Her right arm has already begun to turn black. This isn't release...This is morality turning around to punish her for self-mutilation.

She jumps when someone knocks on the door. Flustered, she doesn't respond, waiting instead for it to open. Archy pokes his head in after a moment, pulls her into a rough hug after the door slams behind him. After tonight's events, his hug only hurts, but she doesn't care. She hugs him with fervor just as equal, inhales his cologne that isn't too strong, yet definitely masculine. Which is also why it surprises her when he shoves her away after a minute.

"Don't you ever, _ever _run off like that again." He scolds, squeezing her shoulder as he waves a finger in her face. "Do you understand? Do you have any-" He stops, shakes his head. "No, you don't. You have _no _idea how _worried _I was. And when the _police _showed up-"

She throws her arms around him again, nearly sending the both of them careening backwards. It surprises her at how much comfort she gets out of just being _around _him, now. Inhaling his scent, hearing his voice, even if it's chastising. She hugs him all the more tighter, wincing at her throbbing right arm. "I'm sorry I hit you." She mumbles against his chest. "And I'm sorry I ran off. You must have been sick about the whole thing."

Surprised, it takes him a moment to hug her back. He slowly snakes his arms around her, strokes her hair. "Do you remember what those men looked like?"

"No. It was dark...I couldn't see much of anything." She looks up at him, rests her chin on his chest. "I'm sorry." She whispers. "I'm _so _sorry."

He rubs her back with a sigh, cups her shoulders as he looks at the window, then her eyes. "You're safe-"

_Not for long..._

"That's all I care about." With one final squeeze to her shoulders, he releases her from his arms, walks slowly to the door. "Get some sleep. I'll have Lizzie look at your arm tomorrow...And we need to have a talk." He stares at her seriously, allows the door to break his gaze.

She goes directly to her mobile when his footsteps recede, allows the tears to flow unchecked while the connection goes through. "Charlie? We _need _to talk."

**A Glance Into the Author's Mind: Symbolism:**

**Talking Straight Razor: The devil. He whispers into your ears at times of temptation, telling you how good it will feel, only to throw it back in your face just how stupid you are once you cave to the crave. **

**Richie's Voice, Just Before Cutting: Abby's conscience, and the disappointment of God looking down at sin. **

**The symbolism didn't really start out that way when I wrote it, but looking back, I decided I'd throw out what it symbolized to the author after a read-through. :-) If you'd like to know anything else about the reason behind the symbolism, feel free to send me a message.**

**I apologize for the long wait! Headaches, irregular sleep patterns, writer's block. You name it. I hope this was long enough to make up for all that time. Special thank you to my lovely reviewers: G.G. Blythe, Yranthro, Smthng2B, SelenesLegacy, and Ennya. Your input is greatly appreciated! Also, special SPECIAL thank you to my friend G.G. Blythe, who is constantly helping me with the character analysis that is our beloved Archy. **

**You know the drill! Hit the review button. Likes/Loves, Dislikes/Hates. Let me know!**


	8. Silence Isn't Always Golden

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything pertaining to RocknRolla, aside from characters and plot unoriginal to the movie. Thank you.**

**Special Author's Note: Chapter dedicated to **_**G.G. Blythe**_**. I'm sorry.**

* * *

The flat is very quiet. Though, if the polished floors and fresh smell of lemon-scent are clue enough, he'd guess Mrs. Peters has finished her work for the day, most likely gone out for a bit; the note he finds taped to the back of the door confirms his suspicions. He wads it up quietly, drops it in the bin in passing to the kitchen sink. Days like these aren't often. Not unexpected, but definitely limited. A groan caresses his throat as he leans all of his weight on his hands, taking a moment to stare through the window. Out of doors, even the booming city seems to be taking a rest. He notes, without any special interest, that there seem to be less lights on in the office buildings. Few cars pass by the flat, and even fewer taxies honk their horns in the distance.

Lenny had been in a foul mood today. Not that it's hard to push him into one. Archy snorts, grabs a shot-glass from the cabinet on the left, a bottle of whiskey from the one on the right. The burn feels good, for once, scorches him straight down to the belly. He pours another one, studies how the moonlight seems to bathe the balcony in a unique shade of blue. He's known Lenny for a good portion of his life. He'd been a much younger man when he'd decided to follow him in his crooked deals...young, desperate for employment...naïve. He grabs a larger glass from the cabinet on the left.

After all this time, though, after everything he's seen, the people he's met...Lenny remains to be the only one he can't always predict...Like when the old clam forced him to agree to something at work today that he very much didn't want to do.

"_...Danny, hose him down!" _

_It's not something he isn't used to seeing. When you work for Lenny, torture and death become everyday things. Besides, it isn't like they haven't used the old crayfish trick several dozen times. That being said, it doesn't really faze Archy to see the young, raven-haired man suspended from a hook, dripping wet with nothing but two flimsy leather straps holding him to a normal dining room chair. He watches the man cough and sputter, inhales the fear reeking off of him in waves. _

_Lenny removes the man's gag with a surprising gentleness for a man of his character, only to reprise the role when he flicks the excess water of the River Thames from his fingers in disgust. "Right." He says, a bit of his disdain showing through. "Who's got that painting? One name." _

_The man sputters again, his earlier anger gone as he looks his captor in the eyes. "Johnny. Johnny Quid! The singer from the group...the...The Quid Lickers!"_

_Lenny stares at him with a slack jaw, searching his face for any trace of jest. He looks at Danny, too, somewhat like the deaf newcomer asking the translator to help them understand. "This hasn't worked, has it?" _

_The man is a ticking time bomb, Archy knows. He can't show it here, but hope starts to blossom in the back of his mind. Nothing kills that junkie. Nothing. He rubs his chin, stares at the kidnaped again. _

"_How can a dead man sell you a painting?"_

_The accusation seems to flip a survival switch on in the young man's head. He begins to struggle again, flailing his hands around as much as he can beneath the leather straps. "No no no no! He's not dead! I know he's not dead, because he tried selling us that painting, and he changed his mind at the last minute! He got like, an obsession with it, or something!" _

_Lenny shatters his mug on the harsh concrete of the warehouse, out of rage that his infectious step-son is still alive, or that it's Johnny that's robbed him, Archy can't tell. "Oh, for f-"_

_It's the former, he knows it. Excitement bubbles up into his face, and he can't decide which direction to look. Should he listen to the annoying groveling of someone that was just in contact with the junkie, or should he listen to the boss's anger for clues?_

"_Sake! Archy! Put him back in before I shoot him!"_

"_No! Please!" The man sputters. "I was interested! I wanted the painting, but like I said, he's got an obsession with it! He said he was going to take it out of the city...I dunno, maybe as far as Scotland, to find a more __worthy__ buyer! Believe me! I know who he is! We went to school together! I wouldn't lie to you! I'd never lie to you! I don't lie! I've __never__ lied in my life! I wouldn't lie to you! Now please, just let me go! I don't wanna get..." Emotions get the better of him. He doesn't care if it's blackmail, he breaks down into sobs, openly._

_Archy turns to Lenny, certain now. "Len, can I have a word?" He walks briskly in front of the older man, unable to get away from the group of thugs fast enough. He isn't going to like it, he knows it. At least that's one of the things he can predict about Lenny: he doesn't like any mention of Johnny...in any way, shape, or form. He waits for him to light up a cigar, using what little precious time he's got to muster up the question. "Your boy ain't dead, is he?" He spits out._

_Lenny whirls on him, practically throwing the lighter back in his pocket. "Don't you __dare__ call him my boy!" _

"_Oh, you know what I mean!" He grumbles, tossing his head as he claws for the words. "Your...your...Ex's boy, your step-son! He had a set of keys to the house, didn't he?"_

"_He just won't die, that cockroach!"_

_Archy can't keep his eyes from narrowing in irritation. Whenever Lenny wasn't there for Johnny (which was most of the time), Archy was. Yes, he's had to clean up for the boy's mouth, he's had to knock him around a few times. Still, this is someone that's become integrated family. He gnaws at his lower lip for a moment, stares at the condiments set out on the table. _

"_That junkie's seen more funerals than an undertaker! He's poison, I tell ya. The next world war will have his name written all over it." He takes a deep breath, wipes his nose as he seems to remember, he isn't speaking to Johnny, he's speaking to Archy, his right hand man, loyal friend...practically a son. "Look," he murmurs, reining himself in, "Go see if you can find out who he knows in Scotland. In fact, why don't you go see if you can find those two flash idiots that were his managers. What were their names?" He shakes his hands, shuffles his feet as though the motions will help his fraying mind. "Greek, and...Minnie." _

_Archy rolls his eyes, allows his irritation to knot his brows together. "Roman and Mickey." _

_Lenny nods. "Yeah, whatever. Because, if anyone can find that smoking crack pipe's connections, they can." He looks down at the ground, purses his lips. "And I'll need you to do me a favor, Arch...If we can find his connections, I'll need you to go after him...Maybe as soon as tonight." _

_He straightens, allows his hand to flop from the table to his side. "What, you mean Scotland?" _

_Lenny looks at him over the frames of his glasses, an expression he usually reserves for the subordinates. "No, Disneyland. Of course I mean Scotland! You been drinking the same water as Bandy?"_

_He tosses his head again, rubs the back of his neck."I dunno, Len." He says quietly."Abby's bruised up pretty bad. I'm not sure I want to be so far away from her just yet." _

_The mention of Abby draws an odd reaction out of the man...the second time, now that Archy thinks about it. He seems to hold his head up a little higher, walks a little closer to Archy as he eases his cigar onto the edge of the ashtray. "What's that, then? What's happened to her?"_

_He swallows a little harder, stares at his feet for a moment, before deciding to look into the shades-covered eyes. "Some muggers tried to steal her mobile-"_

_Lenny shoves the shades higher up on his nose. So, she hasn't snitched after all? He smiles inwardly. No. If she had ratted him out, Archy would have confronted him, by now. He smiles inwardly, listening but not focusing on Archy's words as he, too, leans his weight on the table. "Well, that is...unfortunate, Arch," He states solemnly (though there's an odd, upbeat tone to his solemness), "But...I really do need you to do this job." _

_Archy chews on the inside of his cheek, shakes his head as he watches the men lower Johnny's classmate back into the river...where they won't hoist him back out until they're sure he's drowned...after which, they'll raise him one more time, only to empty the contents of the chair for the next victim. "I'm sorry, Len. This may be one instance in which..." He sighs, brining his conflicted eyes back to the man, "I may just have to tell you no, and deal with the consequences later." He waits for a moment, scratches the bridge of his nose, before lowering his voice. "We share the same blood, Len. I gotta take care of her." _

"_And you can," Lenny states cheerfully, "When you get back from this little...errand. Look," He leans closer to his right hand man, cigar positioned and smoking between their chests, "This is Johnny that's stolen this painting...A painting that belongs to a __client__. Do you __really__ want me to send someone else after him? Someone that doesn't have near as much __patience__ as you, Arch?" _

_Now he grits his teeth. He knew this card was coming...he just hoped above hope it wouldn't be used against him. Lenny knows Archy. He knows how he feels about the boy, and he knows he wouldn't kill him...not in his right mind, anyway. _

"_Besides," He cuts in, interrupting the train of thought, "If you're really that concerned about your niece, I could have one of the boys pop around to check on her." He straightens, cigar lowering to their waists. "Hm? How do you feel about that? I could have Bandy check up on your girl, and Mrs. Peters." _

_This earns a quirk from Archy's brows. "Bandy?" He says, deflated. "I dunno, Len. Dunno if I trust her with someone like Bandy." He chances a look at said person...just in time to witness him getting his thumb pinched by one of the crayfish they keep on display for intimidation. "Bandy wouldn't know what to do with a __lady of the pole__; why should he be able to check up on a poorly teenage girl?" _

_Lenny sticks the cigar between his teeth, chuckling. "It doesn't have to be Bandy...What about...What about Danny? You trust him, don't you?" _

"_I was going to take Danny to Scotland." _

"_What, to go on a nice little holiday with you, is it? You're taking Turbo." He says flippantly. "Remember who you're going after; Turbo will do just fine if you need any manpower. Now," he pushes away from the table, gears already at work, "Go find those two flash idiot managers of his...that should give you a good enough start." _

He feels numb. The alcohol that once scorched him isn't enough anymore. He sucks harder at the liquid, draining the last drop until the squares of ice slide forward and rub his upper lip, deciding it may be more beneficial to drink straight from the bottle instead. It's days like these that he wonders why he's still in the business. _What else would you do? _His mind sneers. _The only laws you respect are the ones set up by Lenny. School drop-outs __don't get anywhere. _He stumbles to the kitchen table as his fingers start to tingle, mind fuzzy. Where did it all-

An annoying buzzing sound breaks the silence, startling him out of the gloom. He sits for a moment, brows drawn as he cranes his neck to search the area around him, irritation mounting before he realizes...Someone's at the front door. He sighs shakily, balancing his weight cautiously from foot to foot, every now and then throwing his arms away from his body to keep upright. He places his left hand against the doorframe, leaning his weight heavily on it before grasping the doorknob, pulling the tall piece of wood towards him.

He's caught off-guard by Lizzie's appearance on his doorstep, straight from work, apparently. Her long, yellow hair is tied back neatly from her face, hairband resting lightly against her nape to allow her wavy mane to sway gently between her shoulder-blades. She's dressed simply in a pair of teal-colored scrubs, awfully clean, he thinks, for a trauma surgeon, with a black overcoat and purse draped over her left arm. Her feet are adorned in a rather new looking pair of pink and silver sneakers, which shift slightly as he takes her in.

Hand still resting on the doorknob, just enough space between the frame and entryway for his head, he simply stares at her, blinking a little harder than normal. "Hey." He slurs softly.

If she's uncomfortable by his inspection, the only clue is a slight, barely noticeable twitch of her eyebrows. "Arch." She says slowly. Her eyes flick down to their feet, off to the side as she rocks from the balls of her feet to the heels, then back again. "Are we going to stand here all night, or, are you going to let me in?" Her brows raise expectantly, before she stands on her toes to look over his shoulder. "Have you got company?"

He continues staring at her for a moment, shaking his head...listlessly. "No, no. Come in." He practically whispers, takes her coat and purse to hang them on the coat-rack not far from the door.

Lizzie stands in the doorway for a moment, head cocked to the right, brows furrowed as she watches his sluggish movements. "Everything alright, Arch?" She sticks her head reluctantly into the room, surveying the empty furniture, the cut-off lights...the bottle of whiskey resting three-fourths empty on the kitchen table. She doesn't take her time walking in, now, closing the door hastily behind her. "What's happened? What's going on?"

The slowness of his brows would be comical if the situation wasn't so concerning. Archy never gets drunk during a week day...not unless something very bad has happened. He tilts his head to the left, shoves his hands in his pockets. "Good as gold." He mutters. "No-...Nuffin's 'appened." He narrows his eyes at her, holding a shaky left hand in the direction of the kitchen. "Would you like...a glass of wine?"

She's the one staring, now, right brow cocked, left flattened over her eye as her jaw hangs slightly down from her upper lip. She shakes her head slowly, cups his cheeks, gently pulls the skin beneath his eyes down to frown into his pupils. "You're drunk."

"Tipsy." He corrects. "Nuffin but tipsy."

"You're buzzed." She scowls. "The law has a tendency to consider buzzed as drunk." She takes him by the hand, leads him outside onto the balcony, unceremoniously shoves him down onto the padded wire love-seat. "What time does Abby get home?" She stops again, angles her chin down to look him directly in the face. "She _is _coming home, right? She's not out getting hurt? Not holed up in her room because you're drinking?"

He yanks his mobile out of his pocket, squints at the screen. "She sent me...she sent me a text...sev-...several hours ago."

She waits, throws her hands out expectantly. "Well? Did she say where she was? When she's coming back? _Is_ she coming back?"

He shrugs, weight leaning particularly to the left...against the armrest. "Didn-...Didn' say."

Lizzie shakes her head irritably, shifts her weight to the right foot so that her hip juts out. "Really, Arch. You call yourself a guardian? Text her and ask her when she's coming home." She pauses for a moment, tosses her head. "Better yet," She says, taking the mobile from his loose fingers, "Let me ask. I can't imagine you can text legibly in this state." She frowns at him again, thumbs moving across the keys in a blur...to his eyes. Handing the phone back to him, she turns toward the door. "You stay out here, in the _fresh _air, if it can be called so, and _don't _move, until I get back." She waits for him to nod, before disappearing into the flat as a sudden burst of light shines through the kitchen window.

He doesn't know when she came back out, only that a steaming cup of coffee is placed unexpectedly in his hands, a glass of water and plate of bread slices on the small stand next to him.

"Drink those, eat that." She sighs, visibly calmer as she lays a cool cloth across his forehead. She would find him like this a lot after he got out of prison, especially the first couple of months. She hides a wince as she watches him sip his coffee, folds her left leg beneath the right as she laces her fingers together in her lap. His actions after being in the slammer, his different mannerisms, his sudden temper flares, the seemingly mechanical touches and words, even during the intimate times, all adding up to their break-up. She shakes her head again, taking the mobile from his lap when the screen lights up, chirping sound announcing the arrival of a new text. "She's still at the friend's house," She says, a note of approval in her voice, "And she wants to know if she can stay for a few more hours."

He reaches for a slice of bread, nodding as half of it disappears.

She sends the corresponding message, leans across him to lay the mobile next to the plate of bread. She's surprised when a heavy arm drapes across her shoulders, pulls her to the warm, muscly body next to her when she tries to straighten again, pinning her awkwardly against his side, head beneath his chin. "Arch," She says slowly, "What are you doing?"

Said person remains motionless, save for another drag of coffee. The mug clinks loudly against the small table when he polishes off the deep brown liquid, damp cloth joining it silently. He leans his head back, staring up at a nearly cloud-consumed moon. "Do you 'fink I'm cut out for this sor' of 'fing?"

The vulnerability in his voice, the softness of it, makes her look quickly up at him, neck straining from her awkward position. She pushes back from him, allowing his arm to drop to her waist as he continues to stare up at the sky. "What do you mean?"

His chin drops swiftly, head lolling sloppily in her direction. "You know, this..." His left hand waves lazily in the air, a crooked circle next to his head, "Parenting 'fing. I..." His brows crease sadly, lips pulling down in a frown, "Where did I go wrong? Why doesn't she trust me?"

She stares at him for a moment, sighs as she places the cool cloth on his forehead again. "You haven't gone wrong, Arch." She says gently, hand resting limply across the cloth to keep it in place. "These are problems she's had for a while, now. That much is obvious to you, isn't it?"

He blinks a few times, nods as he adjusts his arm to rest his hand on her hip. "I should have noticed sooner, I should have watched closer-" A single finger comes to rest on his lips, startling him into silence.

"Shhh." She leans a little closer, not without knowing the waters she dangerously decides to tread in as she turns his face toward her by the chin. "Don't do this to yourself, Archy. You're just going to end up hurting both parties. You're doing what you can with the information that you have. You caught her in the act, which is good. You got her to tell you what the problem is, which is even better. We'll sit her down tonight, and we'll explain the benefits of professional help." She arches her brows, tilts her chin down. "Alright? It's not your fault. She'll be okay."

He nods, cups her smaller right hand in his left, examining and holding the fingers like one would when buying a glass figurine. "I've missed you." He murmurs huskily, eyes flicking to hers.

She holds his gaze for a moment, suddenly realizing how hard it is to breathe, how close he is. Sighing, she gently slips her fingers from his, untangles herself from his half embrace. "I don't want her to see you like this when she gets home." She mumbles, heading for the kitchen again. "Drink some of that water, Arch...I'll make some more coffee."

* * *

She's surprised that he was able to do all of this work by himself. The walls, a boring shade of milk-white before, now proudly sport a nice shade of dark blue. The trim on the windows decidedly, quite fittingly, stayed white, while the carpet changed to a nice, light shade of aqua blue. She feels bad that he did it because they used to make fun of him, used to remind him constantly that his place of chill, study and sleep looked like a hospital room. Then again, if they hadn't, it would still be that way.

She crosses her feet at the ankles, leans against the wall to view out the nearest window, completely lost in a world all her own. Her right arm, despite all the deep gashes in the left arm from her tirade, throbs painfully with each heartbeat, making her wear a continuous wince. Since last night, it's turned completely jet black between the wrist and the elbow, deep violet across the top of the hand, and slightly crimson across the knuckles and fingers. The left arm, the lacerates, continue to weep a translucent pus, some a cloudy shade, while others don't cry at all. She holds them delicately against her body, watching the odd passerby, the malfunction of one of the street lamps, the bulb flickering on and off within every minute.

"Doesn't that lamp bother you?" She says, absent-minded.

Charlie snorts, shakes his head, while Jess scoffs.

"Would you stay focused?" She scolds. "That's the third time I've asked you a question without getting the correct response."

She turns from the window, drinking in her friends. Charlie, he who doesn't care who thinks what about him, sits lethargically in his desk chair, the only things adorning his body being his black boxer-shorts with the logos of superheroes on them (both _Marvel_ and_ DC_), and a white tank-top. His right hand hangs limply from the edge of his desk, the other slung over the side of his chair. Jess sits on the floor, slouched down with her legs crossed, a notepad in her lap.

"I'm sorry," She says for the third time of the night, "What did you ask me?"

Jess rolls her eyes, hoists a pink pen over the paper. "Why don't you just go to the police? Tell them what really happened, about what you _really _saw. It would make you feel a lot better."

Abby shakes her head, deciding to fold her legs beneath her on Charlie's unkept bed. "Because my uncle works for the man. If I rat out Lenny, ultimately, I'll be ratting out Archy."

"The man's a crook, isn't he?" Charlie throws carelessly in her direction. "He works for one. He could be guilty of the exact same crimes."

She glares at him from her three-foot radius of the desk, crossing her arms gingerly. "Don't you think I've thought of that, Charlie?"

Jess closes the notebook, sets it aside as she joins her friend on the bed. "...And you're still comfortable with living with the guy?"

She heaves out a sigh, lowers herself to a laying position to rest her head on the pillow. "He's all I've got, as far as family goes."

Charlie allows a moment to pass, sits up to lean in the direction of the girls. "You could always stay with me-"

"Shut up, Charlie!" Jess snaps. "This is serious!"

He puts his hands up in defense, leaning back again. "I'm just trying to lighten the mood! You're taking a theatre class! Haven't they taught you anything about comic-relief, yet?" He turns to his desk, deciding to doodle on a spare piece of paper.

Jess lays a hand on her friend's shoulder, joining her in a laying position. "So, what are you going to do?"

Abby shakes her head, curls into fetal position. "I don't know...One thing's for certain...I'll really have to watch my back." Her mobile vibrates from the back pocket of her jeans, startling her. She only stares at the screen for a moment, sighing as she lays it on the floor. "He wants me to come home...He thinks it's getting too late for me to be out."

Charlie glances up at the Green Lantern clock above his desk, nodding as he folds up the doodle. "Quite right, he is. We can finish up our meeting tomorrow." He looks over at the cuddled-up girls, sighing. "Are you going to be alright? You want me to camp out on your balcony?"

She remains still for a moment, shaking her head as she untangles herself from Jess's limbs. "No. That would just make Archy and Mrs. Peters suspicious." She pauses, bends down to pick up her jacket. "Besides, I don't know how my uncle feels about boys just yet. I don't want him to take on the role of the protective father." She quirks her brows in the lad's direction. "And if you ask me, he'd be the type that would be cleaning his gun if he knew you were about to walk through the door."

He shoots a crooked grin in her direction, grabbing a wadded up pair of jeans from the floor. "Any smart man would be protective while I'm around his kid." A pillow hits him in the face from Jess's direction.

They climb into Jess's black Volvo once Charlie is completely dressed, their things collected and thrown in the back seat. The drive isn't a very long one at all, much shorter than Abby would have liked given the circumstances. She stares at the front steps bravely, her stomach beginning to fold itself into knots. "I'd better get up there." She says quietly, though she makes no move to get out of the passenger seat.

A gentle hand comes to rest on her shoulder from the driver's side, a larger one from the backseat. "You want us to come with you?" Jess asks.

She shakes her head, reaching slowly for the door-handle. "I'll...I'll be okay. See you guys tomorrow." Her feet drag as she makes her way to the door, turning twice to look at her friends.

"You sure you don't want us to come with you?" Charlie asks, now in the passenger side.

She swallows, nods once as she shuts the door behind her. The air is automatically thicker when she steps inside the dreaded flat, a single light shining on a pair of people sitting at the kitchen table. _Three seconds and I already feel like I'm about to be given the third degree. _She nods at them on her way to her room.

"Abby." Lizzie calls quietly.

_Fudge_. Her feet root to the spot, arms stiff at her sides, fists balled up against her thighs. "Yes?" She squeaks.

"Do you have a moment? Want to come sit down with us?"

_No. I don't want to be anywhere __near__ this building, let alone sit at the same table. _She rotates mechanically in place, forces her feet to move forward. She composes her face into an emotionless mask, easing herself onto the chair like one hundred needles already occupy it. "Yes?" She whispers, keeping her head down.

Archy sits at the head of the table, posture doubled over so his elbows rest against his knees. His chest is nearly touching the table, and there's an odd sort of redness just beneath his eyes and in his cheeks. Lizzie leans against the back of her chair, somehow still straight and proper with her legs crossed.

"Abby," Lizzie starts, an out of place cheerfulness in her voice, "Your uncle and I had a discussion-"

"How long has this been going on?" Archy demands, sitting up.

It takes everything in her not to furrow her brows at the man. He seems weirdly unstable from his position across from her, an obvious determination to keep his face set a specific way in his eyes. She slouches down a little, folds her hands in her lap. "I did it for a little while after mum died." She says timidly, and she doesn't miss the look in his eyes at the mention of her mother. She can't quite place it...

"You've been doing this since you were a child?" Lizzie asks, tilting her head forward.

She shakes her head, still staring at Archy before directing her gaze to her hands. _He looks like a time bomb..._ "No. It started when I turned twelve. You know, awkward stage, stuff developing, things changing inside of me. I had to rely on my best friend's mother to tell me what was going on. God knows dad wouldn't have told me everything I needed to know." Her cheeks flush a brilliant red, eyes not daring to go anywhere near the Archy's direction.

"You've been doing this for four years?" Archy exclaims, a hint of anger in his voice.

Lizzie lays a hand on his forearm, whispering something incomprehensible when the teen seems to shrink down a little more.

"N-no." She whispers. "D-

"Sit up and look at us while you're talking."

She shrinks even more, almost bent over in her chair, now, flinching at his voice.

"Archy." Lizzie scolds.

His head snaps in her direction. "What?"

"You're scaring her."

The statement seems to have an odd affect on him. He also seems to recede within himself, like his niece, crossing his legs as he sighs. "Go on." He mumbles.

She looks reluctantly at him, then Lizzie. "Dad caught me in the act about a year after it started. He had a blow-up moment like you, Uncle, just take your anger and replace it with sadness. He talked to me about the way I'm talking to you, now...and it was a lot worse than getting screamed at." She sighs, rests her fists against her cheeks. "I would have loved it if he'd have yelled at me. He never would...I can't ever recall him yelling at mum, either."

Lizzie allows a moment of silence to pass, uncrossing her legs to cross them at the ankles. "He wasn't one for shouting." She assures.

Abby shakes her head. "No. No, he wasn't."

Archy watches her for a moment, laces his fingers on the tabletop. "I don't...understand, why you feel you can't come and talk to me. Mrs. Peters is always here, Lizzie's available after work." He shakes his head. "Why couldn't you talk to them?"

Lizzie glances between the two. "What your uncle is trying to say, is-"

"Why didn't you tell anyone?" The question comes out as more of a statement.

Abby leans back in her chair, scratches the left corner of her nose with a single finger. "I was scared." She says simply. She summons up the courage to look him in the eyes, fighting back the tears that prick at the backs of her own. "D'you know what dad did when he found out? He sent me away. He sent me to therapy. D'you know what happened there?" She turns her head to the left, towards the kitchen, fervently presses a balled up fist to her lips before dropping it in her lap again. "There were people there, Uncle, that were mad!" She shouts, giving up her battle to fight the tears. "He sent me away, from my warm home, to live with a bunch of nutters! _I _almost went insane in that place!"

She hangs her head, wraps her arms around it so that her hands rest on the back of it. "I hated every minute of it. No one knew how to deal with me. No one _would _deal with me. They always had their hands full with the people that actually _were _insane!" She looks up at Lizzie, eyes red, tears streaking down her face as she shakes her head. "You don't think I'm crazy, do you?" She whispers.

Lizzie's brows are creased, her mask of calmness given way to her sympathy. She's not at the hospital anymore. She's not dealing with sad family members. She's dealing with someone she loves. She shakes her head. "No, Abby, I don't."

"It's just an outlet." She continues. "Just a crutch to help me get through it. After I stop the bleeding, after I slap a bandage on the wound, I'm completely fine. I'm not doing it just to do it. The hurt runs incredibly deep, and it helps me to cope. _That's _the answer to your question, Uncle, because I know what you were getting at." She mumbles, determinedly wiping away her tears. "_That_," She whispers. "Is why I don't want to go to therapy. You'd be taking me out of my new home, which I _do _appreciate you providing me, and you'd be sending me to live with people that, bless them, have worse problems than me." She slumps down in her chair, panting as though she'd just run a marathon. "I told you the other day that I hate you, but I don't. I completely respect your opinion, and I love you too, I just..." She sighs, leaning towards him. "You understand that, Uncle?"

He regards her quietly, nods once, slowly, then two more times quickly. "Yeah, yeah. I understand, Abbs." He murmurs.

Lizzie leans forward as well, places a hand on the teen's left knee. "You've done very well tonight, Abby. I'm very proud that you were able to sit down, and tell us everything. It's helped me to see things a lot more from your perspective. But,"

Abby shakes her head, scoots her chair back slowly. "No..."

"I want you to see a shrink. We're not sending you away to a psychiatric center, you're not going to be living with insane people. All it is, is a nice little, everyday, just talking to the psychiatrist for an hour type thing." Her brows arch, hands motioning for her to come closer again. "_I _know the psychiatrist I'm sending you to. _I _use her myself because of the things I see in my profession. I don't think you're insane, and I don't think you need to be sent away."

She sits stiffly in her seat, knuckles white as she grips the sides of her chair. She tilts her head to the left, brows knitting in confusion. "You mean, therapy doesn't mean going away?"

Lizzie shakes her head. "Absolutely not." Now her brows furrow. "Is that what you thought therapy is?"

She doesn't say anything...just stares at the gentle hand resting on her knee again.

"Oh, Abby." She's right beside her, then, arms tightly around the younger woman, rocking her gently. "You should have said something."

"I was scared." She whispers. "I didn't want to go through it again." She gives the woman a side-glance, feeling more like that young girl again than an adult. "You promise you won't send me away?"

"No, sweetheart." She assures. "You don't need to be sent away, you just need someone to talk to."

She allows a moment to pass, loosening her arms to give Lizzie the gist. "Are we done talking? I'm...I'm very tired."

The older woman nods, smiles as she gets to her feet. "Yes, we're done. You did very good, Abby. As I said, I'm very, very proud of you. Thank you for talking."

She looks over at Archy, eyes flicking across his face, looking for some form of confirmation. She knows, just as well as Lizzie knows, that his approval is the most important. He nods, scoots his chair back as he, too, stands up. He comes to her, and without a hint of awkwardness, wraps his arms around her.

* * *

Just outside of a flat, non-too shabby, non-too fancy, a black Volvo is parked beneath a streetlamp. Two people, one young man, one young woman, one brunette and one raven-haired, sit silently with the windows rolled down.

"Do you think she'll be alright for the night?"

Jess nods her head, tossing the remainder of a burned-down cigarette out of her side of the car. "She would have called us by now, otherwise."

Charlie nods, also discarding his cancer stick. "I know that."

"Then why did you ask?"

His head lolls in her direction, fixes her with a stare. "I asked for the same reason you stayed parked here after she went inside."

She nods, one hand reaching for the steering-wheel, the other for the keys.

"She won't ask for help." They chorus.

"Have you got a plan?"

She shakes her head, turning up the volume of the latest CD on the shelves. "Working on it. I'll need some more sleep. Just keep your mobile next to your bed if she calls...I'll do the same."

They don't notice, as they drive off, a man dressed in all black, from his fedora and tie, down to his socks and shoes, crouching behind the bushes next to the stairs of the flat. Checking the sidewalk in each direction, he stands, writing down the last descriptions of one male and one female, a license plate number, and car model, before sinking into an alley, unnoticed, like a shadow.

**Wooh! My goodness. So many emotions, so little a time-frame I wrote it in. Just to clarify, I don't own a Green Lantern wall clock...sadly, but, I do have a Green Lantern poster just above my desk...and comics...2/3rds of them Green Lantern...And a keychain...and t-shirt...and shoes...*shoves geeky glasses higher up on nose* WELL, I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter just as much as I enjoyed writing it (oh my goodness was it fun). Another shout-out to my reviewers, **_**Yranthro, SelenesLegacy, **_**and the helpful advice from my good friend, **_**G.G. Blythe.**_


	9. A Note

**My Dear Readers,**

**Sadly, I may have to discontinue this story, and here's why:**

**A few chapters back (chapter 7, to be exact, slightly before the cutting scene and at the very end in my author's note), I unfairly, shamefully, misrepresented God.**

**Quote from the story: **_"I'm so disappointed in you." _

**Explanation at the end of the story: **_Richie's Voice, Just Before Cutting__: Abby's conscience, and the disappointment of God looking down at sin._

**I didn't realize at the time what exactly I was doing, but now, the truth has been revealed to me. I portrayed Him as a wrathful God, One who frowns down on a fallen world and writes down everything that everyone does wrong. I assure you, He's not like that AT ALL. He even promises He's not. 2 Corinthians 5:18-19 **

**What I wrote a few chapters back has been weighing on my mind lately. Please also allow me to assure you, God has NOT been condemning me for it. Rather, He's been gently reminding me, tenderly helping me to realize the mistake, and never once did I feel that He was frowning on me and not willing to reconcile me. If anything, this experience is bringing us closer. I DEEPLY apologize to you, dear readers, for the great inconvenience I've caused you in portraying Him as wrathful, cold, and distant, because He's not...He's the exact opposite (1 John 4:16).**

**I'm not going to hide it from you. I've become a Christian. NOT a religious freak...a follower of Jesus Christ (because I guarantee you, there's a difference). I'm questioning a lot of the things in ALL the stories I've written, not just this one, because my mind is undergoing changes; it's being renewed. NOT brainwashed. Renewed (Romans 12:2). I'm not going to delete this story just yet. I'm praying about it, I'm questioning the content, and when its evaluation is complete, I'll know whether or not I should salvage it. Please don't think Jesus is a party-pooper because He's bringing the content of this story to question. Just because I've accepted Him as my Savior doesn't mean I have to stop being a creative writer, or have to stop reading fanfiction. No, no. The desires I have to be a creative writer are actually given to me (Philippians 2:13), and these desires can be far greater than I realize (Ephesians 3:20).**

**So please, accept my apology (because one, I know you were expecting another chapter, and two, that I've portrayed God in such a bad light). Some of you might hate me and walk away from me. Some of you might think I've lost my marbles and won't want anything to do with me. Some of you will resent the purpose of my questioning this story entirely. But, you know what? That's okay. I won't hate you for it (and I promise you, He will NEVER hate you for ANYTHING either...EVER (Jeremiah 29:11; Romans 8:38-39)), I won't hold a grudge against you, and I certainly won't judge you, because I have no right to do so. I do care about your opinions, and do still want to be friends with you. I can't go on writing material that, for the most part, I feel is harming me (I do have to get a bit depressed to write some of it) and my relationship with Jesus, and possibly other people. So, as I said, I'll pray over it, I'll reconsider the material; I'm not all set to scrap the whole thing. Thanks, dear readers. God bless you. John 3:16-17**

**~BrokenForYouSpilledForYou~**


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